Ornithology
by AeonBlue
Summary: Brena's been left reeling after the death of her uncle, and Nick is faring no better after Brena's sudden departure from his life. Or, the study of birds. (Sequel to The Tau Hypothesis)
1. Chinese Lunar Menu

Welcome Back.  
Shall we pick up with Nick and Brena?  
Thank you to the world's best tree/brick shithouse full of Tylenol for RP'ing this out with me. ;) 

* * *

For the umpteenth time that week – no, that month – Brena lay curled in one of Hazel's quilts on the floor of the parlor, wishing she'd draft-proofed a bit better as the cold was making her shoulders ache. She didn't know how late it was; she honestly wasn't sure she knew what day it was. All notion of self-care had gone out the window; she rarely showered and changed clothes, ate infrequently – and generally unhealthily binged when she did – and refused to interact with the outside world unless her hand was forced. Slowly, she turned enough to look out the window; she never bothered closing the curtains in the parlor. The windows overlooked the intersection outside the brownstone, and the passing cars and people usually offered her a tolerable distraction. Snow had begun to pile up on the balconies, and icicles dangled like claws from the eaves and railings outside. The sky looked lonely; none of the stars were visible, and the snowflakes that swarmed the windows seemed angry more than festive. Brena was relatively sure Christmas had passed, and she hadn't bothered to do a single thing to celebrate it. _'What was it Alison said? Too old? Or was it dirty? It's not, though. And I'm fine. Chilly, here – but fine.'_

* * *

Baked goods and casseroles continued to pile up at Brena's door even though her uncle had been dead over a month, and once every few days she'd force herself out to the vestibule to collect the various dishes and pans that kept appearing. Most of the food went straight down the garbage disposal; while she appreciated everyone's gestures, she had no appetite and it was far too much food for one person to eat. Instead, she found herself on a first-name basis with Zhang Wei, the driver for the Chinese restaurant four blocks over from her brownstone, and near-enough to Magee to have become a favorite. Brena never ordered much, but it only took a few calls before he was answering the phone by saying her name and what she assumed was a greeting – caller ID having gotten the best of her – and without her ever asking for a specific meal, he'd show up about a half-hour later, an order of honey chicken with tangerine peel and ginger shoots in tow. Eventually, soup started making an appearance, and then steamed rolls of some sort, and though the total never changed, Brena made a best-guess at the amount and tipped generously. The food he brought was also too much for her, and she found herself idly wondering, more than once, whether Nick ever thought of the crispy duck they'd had for lunch months ago.

* * *

Alison should have been the last person on Brena's mind. She basically was, too, until Brena got it in her head that it had been far too long between trips to the front door to check for food from her friends and neighbors. She knew she ought to ask people to stop sending so much, but didn't want to be tacky in the face of generosity. _'Eventually, this will peter out. People will move on. Have moved on.'_ She sighed and set to work bundling bowls and trays into the brownstone, and it was only a few minutes later before a chill shot through the vestibule, followed by Alison's ridiculously toned, gazelle-long long legs breezing past Brena's face as she stooped again to clear the floor of pies and entrees. Alison, of course, didn't stop to help her friend pick up plates and dishes; instead she simply let herself inside the brownstone, stepping over Brena and then spinning to face her, arms crossed, the toe of her shoe already tapping against the floor.

"You know what? I'm just gonna be the one to say it. You need to sell this place, Bren. You're just so... _dead_. You need a new place to live. Look at you! You're a disaster. Do you, like, _shower_ , or did the water get shut off?" She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, looking around the living room as she did. "I mean...Brena...this place is just... _old._ It's _dated._ You can do _so_ much better than this. It's _not_ quaint, it's _trashy_." She clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

Brena managed to pull most of the food inside the door while Alison spoke, but it was the way she spat out the word 'trashy' that caused Brena's fingers to lock around the cold, thick glass of a Pyrex baking dish, loaded down with tuna noodle casserole. Slowly, she rose to vertical and walked around Alison, knuckles turning white from the force with which she gripped the dish.

"Hello, Alison. I'm not sure why you didn't call first?"

"Because I was in the neighborhood. Besides, I didn't think you'd answer your phone, what with your uncle being dead and all," Shrugging, Alison began to walk around the living room, shuffling framed photos back and forth, pulling books from their shelves, and scoffing at the dust on the furniture. "Bren, this is pathetic. I know a realtor, let her come in here and stage the place. Get rid of it."

Having banged the casserole down on the kitchen counter, Brena spun it, corner-for-corner, the glass scraping harshly along the stone countertop. "When are you gonna update the kitchen, Bren? Stainless is _the_ thing right now," Alison, now buried in the parlor, had to shout to be heard. "I mean, that stove's a disaster – not even the kind of antique people pay money for. Speaking of – money isn't, like, an _issue_ for you, is it? You got something when he died, right?" She snorted as she lifted the lid on the phonograph, then dropped it back down roughly. "You sell this place, you'd for _sure_ end up with enough cash to move outside the city. Something a little less urban, a little more your speed."

Faster and faster, Brena whirled the casserole around on the counter. She'd uncovered it at some point, wadding up the plastic wrap and throwing it in the sink, and watched as loose breadcrumbs flew onto the counter as she spun the dish around.

Unfazed, Alison continued down the hall, toward the bedrooms. Brena felt her shoulders tighten, but couldn't bring her feet to carry her after Alison. Her voice fared no better; she found herself without the words she needed to make Alison be quiet and leave.

"Like, this shit. Brena, you understand they're _gone_ , right?" Alison emerged from the hallway clutching a large, framed photograph of Deaglan, Hazel, and Brena, her fingers smearing the glass and the wire anchor-line dangling off the back of the frame, as though it'd been torn down from the wall. Dangling over her other arm was a quilt from Hazel and Deaglan's bed. Where it had once been folded neatly, it was now a mash of fabric, and Alison trailed it across the fireplace hearth as she walked past, collecting soot and grit, before tossing the photo and quilt down on the coffee table. Most of the quilt dangled onto the floor; the photograph's frame landed with an audible crack. Alison simply continued moving and talking, as though she could force the brownstone to bend to her will.

"And these _birds_ , Brena. God, Hazel really just...had a _thing_...for birds...didn't she?" While Hazel always _had_ loved her birds, she'd never been excessive with her fondness. Alison was gesturing dismissively at a photograph of two cardinals, one male and one female, in the local square – it clearly wasn't professional, but it was absolutely sentimental and was one of Hazel's favorites. She took the picture herself; Deaglan bought the camera for her as an anniversary gift. "I swear to God, there's a fucking bird on _every_ wall. You know that's not _décor_ , right? I mean, I guess you could sell some of this shit. Kitsch is very 'in' right now. You remember that Pinterest website I told you about? Why don't you do some of the things on there? It's not like you're doing anything else all day, you've got the time."

Faster and faster, Brena spun the casserole dish, the edges starting to lift and rattle as she moved it, whole loose peas and chunks of celery flying out of the dish and scattering on the counter. _'There is nothing wrong with my house. There is nothing wrong with my family. My house is empty. My family is dead. What am I doing? Am I doing this the wrong way? Should I be more...less...something?'_

"Brena? Brena! Are you even listening?" Alison had thrown the photo of the cardinals on top of the now-sooty blanket and broken family photo in order to free up her hands and snap her fingers at Brena. "I'm going to call my realtor friend and we're going to get this place listed. It's just not _working_ for you," She turned her back to Brena and started tapping away on her phone, pushing books and photos around on the fireplace mantel with her unoccupied hand, oblivious to the rage building on her friend's face.

Rage. It was unfamiliar to Brena, something hot and rasping and metallic-tasting, though she hadn't realized til that moment that feelings could have a taste. Sorrow, loss, disappointment, regret, those were all things Brena knew, could dance along the edges of, could even dive into, but rage was something more wicked and beguiling. She hadn't known feelings could change her physically, though she found her hearing growing cottony and her vision becoming sharply, painfully clear. Oddly, briefly, for a moment she felt pressure against the backs of her legs, hot breath in her hair, then a cold explosion that reminded her of ice water, before her mind blanked itself. Snatching up the casserole and whirling around, she let go of it just as she came to face Alison, the dish flying from her hands in a nearly perfect discus shot. It exploded against the fireplace, barely missing Alison's head, but coating her back and side in a shower of creamed tuna and noodles, the chunks of glass scattering across the hearth around her.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Brena, what the fuck?" Alison was trying to wipe tuna from her phone, her hair, her clothing, but was only succeeding in smearing it around and making the problem worse. She flicked chunks of the casserole on the hearth, then into the carpet, then scraped her palm clean on the edge of the fireplace. "I mean, really, what the _fuck_? You're acting like that _guy._ _Throwing_ things _._ I thought stupid and crazy _wasn't_ contagious. I mean, he could've had _me_ , and he passed on that. _You're_ not still hanging around _him_ , are you?"

"Don't you dare bring up Nick! Don't you _dare_!" Brena was screaming now, rushing toward Alison and snatching up the photographs from the coffee table as she went. "You have _no_ idea what it's been like for me! None! I am _not_ leaving this place! Do you hear me?" She flailed the photos at Alison, having no idea what she was doing, but knowing that whatever the feeling was, it had to come out of her. Alison dodged out of Brena's way, shoving her as she went past, sending Brena down into the scattered casserole on the floor. Brena, tangled in her own feet, dropped the photos and lunged toward Alison, nearly taking her down to the floor when she finally connected, and further scattering the spilled meal. Alison, using her feet to push Brena's hands off her ankles, looked down with equal parts annoyance and amusement.

"You lost your fucking mind, Brena," Alison pulled more chunks of noodle and sauce from her hair, throwing them down on Brena, who lay sniveling on the floor. "Seriously. Call me when you get your shit together, and I'm gonna try _real_ hard to forget about this stunt you just pulled."

"Stunt? Stunt?" Brena was screaming again, trying to get back to her feet, but her arms didn't want to push her up the right way. "This is no stunt! He was right, Alison, where were you? You...you were gone! And now, you can leave! Leave right now and don't you dare come back here! Don't call, don't visit, don't write, _nothing!_ "

"Whatever. I'll send you the bill for dry cleaning, not that you're gonna be able to _pay_ for anything. That's why you need to sell the place." Nonplussed, and thinking she'd just witnessed a fairly hilarious breakdown, Alison let herself out the door, shutting it firmly behind her. Shaking, covered in tuna casserole, Brena awkwardly reached up and managed to flick the lock on the front door, earning a crack from her shoulder in the process. Curling herself around her more-bothersome arm, she rolled bits of noodle and pea between her fingers until they turned to a gluey mass and stuck under her nails, feeling the sauce crusting in her hair and watching the tuna dry into the carpet. The whole scene, pitiful as it was, made her wish she hadn't given away her cat, Jameson, and she followed that by briefly wishing she had Nick's phone number, then by wishing she could forget Nick entirely. Tears were slow in coming, and Brena was frustrated with herself for crying at all.

 _'Done enough of that for a lifetime. What's there left to cry over, anyway? The cat is gone, the brownstone is empty, you've chased away your friends, and Nick was never yours to begin with.'_ Brena sighed, full of remorse for things she had and hadn't done, and rolled further onto her hip, trying to block out the draft from the door.

All that, and yet Brena was oblivious to the fact she'd managed to fall on her phone as she raged and ranted with Alison, accidentally dialing Meredith in the process. Meredith was only privy to the end of the conversation, in which Alison said Brena lost her mind, and that was enough to send her over the edge. Dr. Morgan wouldn't let Meredith leave early, so it was several hours later before she was able to make her way over to Brena's brownstone, parking on the street and banging on the door til she heard a tiny, metallic click.

It took Brena a few minutes to move herself away from the door; she was stiff from the cold. Meredith banged into her twice, trying to get inside. Once inside, she wrinkled her nose and moved to sit next to Brena, not caring at all that she'd planted her ass firmly in a pile of tuna and noodles.

"Had a moment, eh?"

"Meredith, please, tonight I just can't dea-"

"You dialed my phone when Miss Asshole was here. From the looks of things, you probably – let me guess – fell on it?" Brena cringed, and tried to shift away from Meredith, embarrassed that her meltdown had been heard. "It's okay, Bren. I'll help you clean it up. Let's get you in a shower, too, before this shit turns into concrete. Mrs. MacAlaistair always did make a solid tuna noodle casserole."

Lifting Brena up from the floor, which didn't take much effort – she'd become more gaunt since Deaglan died, and she wasn't anywhere near a healthy weight before his passing – Meredith walked her toward the bathroom, setting the water for a shower and telling Brena to undress. She decided to take her clothing down to the laundry room before the stains set, knowing that Brena would be upset if she ruined her hoodie. The few times Meredith had managed to weasel her way into the brownstone since Deaglan passed, Brena was almost always in her collegiate hoodie – the one she wore when she fell asleep over Nick, at Magee.

The water ran long and hot, and Meredith toyed with her phone while she waited for Brena to dislodge herself form the steam and ginger of the bathroom. More than once, she brought up Claudio's phone number, debating whether she should call right away and keep the conversation short, or wait til Brena fell asleep and she could spend more time explaining. Brena's crying suddenly became audible over the water, and Meredith decided her call could wait; she had a bathroom door to knock on now.

"What's up, Bren? You okay in there?"

"Meredith, I'm so stupid. Think of what I did!"

"Almost took the bitch's head off? I mean, we should work on your aim, but all considered it wasn't bad."

Brena went from crying to sniffling, shut the water off, and cracked the door open. She was buried in a fluffy towel, and her hair striped dark and wet around her face. "No, Meredith, that's not the thing. I mean, yes, I could have hurt her. Alison was horrible, and Nick was right about her, but that's not the thing."

 _'Well, Nick is part of this "thing" you have going on, but we'll get to that.'_ "Okay, then what's the thing?"

"I owe Mrs. MacAlaistair a new casserole pan." Brena sounded embarrassed, and nearly mumbled her words.

Laughing raucously, Meredith guided Brena to what she remembered as her bedroom, though both women hesitated at the door. "Nope. Don't think I didn't see that heap of a quilt on the floor. You're sleeping proper tonight, and _yes_ I will be here to make sure."

Sighing, Brena climbed up into the bed, cringing as she slid under the covers and sheets – in part because they were cold and in part because getting into any bed, alone, in her home, set her skin to crawling. None of them held good memories for her. Hazel had died in one, she'd not-so-politely told a man to leave another – an ill-fated and poorly considered attempt at going on a date – and now here she was in a third, trying to will herself to ignore Alison having called her out about Nick. Brena waited for the door to close, waited for the hands on the clock to shift enough that she knew Meredith would figure she was asleep, and stood cautiously, avoiding the floorboard that she knew squeaked. Pulling the quilt off the bed, she wrapped it over her shoulders and laid down on the floor between the bed and the windows.

* * *

Meredith went back down the hall, briefly considered going up to the second floor – but didn't know how booming the echo would be during her call – and surveyed her handiwork in the living room. The stains on the carpet were soaking, the fireplace had been cleaned of its tuna palm-print, all of Brena's quilts were folded and stacked, and the chunks of broken glass were all neatly swept up and put into a paper bag. Now, all Meredith had to do was talk to Claudio and catch a few hours of shut-eye. She'd heard the mattress creak down the hall and knew Brena had moved herself to the floor; she also knew there was no point in arguing. Queuing up Claudio's number on her phone, Meredith poured herself a glass of wine and settled in to the sofa.

"Here's hoping your idiot is doing better than my idiot," Meredith whispered. The phone didn't have long to ring before Claudio picked up.

"Meredith? Thank God, kostbarkeit, it is you." Claudio sounded drained, and Meredith wondered what Nick had put him through on _that_ particular night.


	2. Rat Trap

MOM2! You're back! Tell me, how do you feel about Seth? (no, really, tell me before it's too late – I'm going to be dual publishing, and while I've got my sights set on a certain traitorous wretch, I could be persuaded to go back to my...er, our...primary boo.)

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, followed, and stopped by. Comments, questions, concerns? Leave 'em in review! I'm trying to get better about responding to people.

* * *

"An' 'ello?"

Nick curled his lip in what would have been a snarl in any other situation, but ended up being a look of complete confusion. He'd expected Brena to answer her phone, not a gravel-voiced man who sounded three cigarettes away from a terminal case of lung cancer.

"Brena – this is Brena's phone, right?"

"Yeah, an' she's a bit busy, what with the funeral reception an' all. I'll have a message from ye or else I'll be 'angin' up now."

Nick was dumbfounded. He started to speak, to try to ask where Brena was and if she was okay, but Meredith came into his room and started talking over him, something about his chart compilation so the wheels could start turning on his discharge planning. No matter how hard Nick waved his hands at her, she refused to be quiet. Nick raised his voice, which caused Meredith to raise her voice, and they shouted at each other long enough for the man on the phone to hang up, calling Nick more than a few names in the process, and telling him not to call back and bother Brena.

"Meredith, _what_ the _fuck_? I was – that was – on the phone, I mean! That was Brena! It wasn't Brena, someone else answered her phone, but I was trying to call her! Like you said!"

Meredith looked like she'd been shot, then scrambled for her cell phone in her scrubs pocket – she wasn't supposed to have it on her, but like so many rules at Magee, there was an Exception For Meredith – and tried dialing Brena. The call went directly to voicemail, and Meredith slammed her phone down on Nick's bedside table, before picking it up and dialing again, with the same results.

"Just leave."

Nick's voice was dead; calling it stone would have assigned it too much emotion. Meredith looked at him, blinking hard, and opened her mouth to speak, but he waved her off, staring at his phone as though he could make Brena call him if he just thought about it hard enough.

* * *

After that, Nick decided two weeks of avoiding Meredith would be easy enough. He talked to Dr. Morgan the same day of the botched phone call and explained his request for a new lead RN as, 'Reminds me too much of Deaglan, and I'm leaving soon anyway.' Sensing something else was going on, but not willing to rock the boat more than was necessary, Dr. Morgan quietly reassigned Meredith away from Nick, giving him no lead nurse whatsoever, but leaving Meredith in charge of his chart coordination. Meredith, in turn, was beside herself – she hadn't meant to ruin Nick's phone call; really, she hadn't expected him to call Brena at all – and when she went to the pub later that night to check on Brena and explain the situation to the bartender, she found her slumped over the bar, half-asleep and half-drunk, and her phone completely cleared of messages and calls.

"What the _fuck_ did you do? She asked you to _answer_ her phone, not go through it!"

"Aye, an' she got a call from an arse, earlier. I took it upon m'self to rid that one from the list, an' ye should be thankful." The bartender was on the edge of irritation with the tone Meredith took in speaking to him.

"You deleted the _entire_ list," Meredith fumed, trying to prop Brena up against the wall and get her ready to go, " _And_ her voicemail! How the fuck did you even get _in_ to her voicemail?"

"Lass, m'trade is taps, not technology," The bartender shrugged, and went back to wiping out glasses.

"Did you tell her she had a call?"

Annoyed, the bartender threw his towel down on the bar. "She 'ad about forty calls; I di'n't stop to get names and faces and the like. 'Ere's no sign here what reads receptionist, now is 'ere?"

Meredith groaned, pulled Brena to standing, and debated telling her about Nick's call. Part of her thought Brena deserved to know, and part of her thought Brena would just argue the point with her, that she shouldn't say Nick called because it couldn't be true, and she couldn't do anything for him anyways. Ultimately, Meredith kept quiet, figuring that Brena wouldn't be sober enough to handle the news anyway, and pushed her into the passenger seat of her car.

"Is it time to go home, Mer?" Brena had at least registered that she was going out of the bar, but as for what was next, she had no idea.

"Yep. Buckle in, we're going to be driving."

"Mer, I don't want to go back there."

Meredith puzzled for a second, sliding into traffic and coming to a stop at a light. "Go where, Bren? We're not going back to Magee, if that's what you mean."

"No, Meredith. I don't want to go home." Brena rested her head against the passenger window, looking up into the yellowy street lights. "Nobody's there."

Relenting and circling the block, Meredith changed direction, driving away from Brena's brownstone and toward her own apartment. _'I get the feeling this is going to be a few-day-long kinda gig, Bren. I guess we'll figure out clothing in the morning.'_

* * *

After that, time started, stopped, passed in jerking shards and fragments, and Nick found himself standing on the curb outside Magee like a prisoner released on parole, duffel bag in hand, waiting for a cab. _'Okay. I can do this. Get to the airport, the ticket is preloaded to my phone, get on the plane, get to the gym. Here we go.'_ He figured it'd all be simple enough, but then found himself asking the cab driver if he knew anyone named Brena.

"Common enough name, what's her last name?"

Nick stammered – he was caught, and he knew it. "I...I don't know. She's Irish...I..."

Roaring with laughter, the cabbie shifted gears and stomped on the gas pedal, tossing Nick back into the seat. "Hoo, well, _there's_ a way to narrow it down. Y'know that ninety percent of the people 'round here are Irish?"

The rest of the ride to the airport was silent.

* * *

Claudio was thrilled to see Nick performing again, as was a majority of the other performers and crew members, but Nick couldn't muster up anything that felt like real happiness. Plenty of other feelings, to be sure, like the eager glee and then wrenching hate that filled him when a caterer brought out tiny gingersnap cookies midway through a pre-event meal setup. They weren't anything special; just a pre-stamped, frozen dough cutout, and Nick flicked one off the display plate, bouncing it along the table, crumbs sprinkling along as it went. The outward change in Nick was subtle, nearly impossible to notice if you didn't know what you were looking for – it could just as easily be assumed Nick didn't like the cookies, or was goofing around – but Claudio slid up to him, knowing that something was off.

"Come, my friend. You look unwell. Perhaps it is the creamed mushroom soup? It also looks...unwell."

"Christmas, C," Nick mumbled, letting Claudio lead him off by the elbow, "She smells like Christmas."

Claudio only shook his head. "Nick, my friend, call her."

"Nah, man. If Bren wanted to talk to me, she would have by now. Meredith knows I tried to talk to her. If nobody's called me back by now...then nobody's gonna call."

 _'If you will not remedy this situation, then I will. Or at least, I must try. You are much improved in every way except for your ability with women. Well, with this woman.'_ Claudio shook his head and deposited Nick at a table in catering, telling him to wait for CJ – which earned another string of mumbled words, none of them pleasant.

Plotlines that Nick prayed were forgotten were instead seized upon with vigor. He and CJ were always friendly, her ability with accents never failed to impress, and her turn as 'Lana' was garnering some stunning crowd reactions. He didn't think their new angle would work, though, and he wasn't eager to have fake feelings chase his real ones. As much as Nick wanted Brena to be watching him, to know that she hadn't forgotten him, he absolutely didn't want her to watch him kiss someone, and he knew this angle would be months long – the WWE did always love a good romance.

If Nick was being truly honest with himself, he hadn't wanted to leave Philadelphia til he found Brena. He wanted to demand that his cab driver take him from street to street, looking for bakeries under brownstones that were across from florist shops, so he could fold up in her ginger and smoke one more time. The loneliness made him, in turns, brokenhearted and furious. Nick felt she had both no reason to leave and every reason to leave, wondered if he imagined his level of importance to her, hated himself for getting so caught up in someone who couldn't possibly fit into his life – not its current incarnation, anyway – and then wrapped both of her quilts around him every night, opting to pay the extra baggage fee it took to accommodate the second suitcase required to travel the quilts with him on the road.

Honesty didn't warm his bed at night, and to stave off the loneliness that usually came with nightfall, Nick decided to get back in on the proverbial horse. He started to drown himself in whatever drinks were put in front of him at hotel bars – which were usually accompanied by a hopeful woman or two. Eventually he became bored with the hotel bars, and so Nick's overindulgent drinking eventually turned into near-total alcoholic binges at clubs, and even Claudio couldn't save him from himself.

Claudio had continued to room next to Nick at their hotels, thinking it would be better to hover and offer advice from a distance rather than demand him as a roommate and meddle outright. He noticed that, despite Nick's ridiculously risky behavior, there was an initial hesitance to bring anyone back to the room. Well, back _in_ to the room – plenty of women had made it to the door, only to be turned away at the last second and taken back downstairs by security. On those nights, Nick would rage around in his room, slamming doors and banging furniture around, until Claudio would pound on the wall and Nick would quiet down.

Eventually, his self-control wore out, and Nick started letting the ring-rats and bar-whores into his bed – all of them, without fail, bearing some resemblance to Brena. At first, it was only once or twice a week that Claudio was treated to the sounds of Nick drinking too much, fucking too much, and then missing Brena too much, before kicking out a thoroughly unimpressed woman, but that increased over time until his indiscretions were near-nightly, a pattern that continued for months. Clearly he wasn't enjoying himself, but he persisted where any other man with common sense might have stopped. When Nick couldn't perform well or satisfy his partner, he compensated by screaming at them, blaming them, ranting about not coming home for his holidays, until they let themselves out the door. Nick would then let himself into the mini-bar, drinking double-shot bottles til he was numb enough to find his predicament tolerably irksome, instead of depressingly tiring.

* * *

Everything has a breaking point. It happened that Nick's came sooner than Claudio expected, but he was glad to see it – something had to force the issue. Nick brought a thin, likely coked-out, dark haired waif back to his room, banging the door against the slide-bolt on his way into the room. He'd wanted it propped open in case the girl decided to leave when they were done – generally, it was easier that way, and the exit wouldn't wake him up. Claudio considered banging on the wall as a signal to Nick that he was still awake, but he could hear Nick drunkenly bellow that he'd be back, he just wanted to take a shower. Thankful for small favors and the temporary respite they offered, Claudio could hear the bathroom door bang open, slam shut, and be followed by the sound of screaming pipes as Nick set the shower to hot, and hot only. The girl was strangely silent – no requests to join him in the shower, no turning on the TV – and Claudio began to wonder if she really was strung out or sick, as so many of Nick's other recent conquests were. Brena came by her thinness somewhat naturally through dance and stress; these girls were addicts, desperate, or both.

The bathroom door reversed the process minutes later, slamming open and banging shut, with Nick's heavy footfalls rattling the floor all the way in Claudio's room. It sll seemed normal – seedy, yet normal – until Nick started screaming and slurring at the girl. Then, Claudio couldn't get his shoes on fast enough, gave up on a shirt entirely, and was unable to understand what the girl was saying, only that it was through sobs. Nick, however, was perfectly clear, despite his intoxication.

* * *

"What the fuck are you doing? What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" Nick hadn't even bothered to start at angry; he'd launched directly into fury and somehow flew from the doorway of the bathroom into the girl's face, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her.

"I don't know! I'm doing what you want, right?" The girl, scared, was trying to backpedal anywhere her feet would take her, but Nick was holding her and she was tripping over one of the quilts. Not the hotel quilt, of course, but Brena's quilt. She'd stripped completely while Nick was in the shower and had not only put the peacock quilt on the floor – in part for them to fuck on, so the bed wouldn't bang into the wall, but mostly so it was comfortable while she looked out the window. The view was spectacular, and if she wasn't in a position to be looking at Nick, she figured she may as well have _something_ to look at – but had then also wrapped herself in the quilt Brena gave to Nick on his first night at Magee. Her naked, unwashed, intoxicated, drug-addled self.

Nick kept moving backwards, first holding the girl by her shoulders, then her neck, her balance compromised not only by the sickness brought on from her fading high, but by the corners of the quilt tangled through her ankles. He didn't realize the other quilt was on the floor until he tripped over it, hearing a tragically loud ripping sound in the process, and then followed that tragedy by slamming the girl's back into the window, the glass echoing with a warning thump that indicated a full break and long drop wasn't far behind if Nick tried that again.

"No! No, you're not! What the fuck are you doing?" Nick shook her again, banging her head into the window. "Who fucking told you to _touch_ those?"

"Nobody!" The girl shook her head, starting to cry from fear and confusion, "No – I mean, you – you didn't say to do anything, but I thought I should, like, be...be..."

"Be _what_?" Nick spat, his fingers digging into her neck and arm. He knew he was going to leave marks, he knew that was not going to go over well with corporate, and he knew he didn't care.

"Be _ready_ ," The girl whispered, "I thought we were gonna, like..."

"Get out!" Nick roared, his volume setting his neighbors on one side of his room to pounding on the walls, "Get the _fuck_ out! You weren't supposed to touch those! They're not yours! Those are from _her_ , they're for _me_ , they're _not_ for you, they're...they're..."

The girl was trying to worm her way out of Nick's hands, sensing he was lost in his rant and she might not get another opportunity. Successful, she dropped the quilt from around her and scrambled for the towel Nick deposited on the floor as he rushed from the bathroom. She managed to wrap it around herself as he shoved her down; neither one of them knew why he'd want to bother slowing her exit from the room, at this point.

"Leave! Get _out_!" Nick was pinning her to the floor; she couldn't move to leave with his weight over her, and he'd latched solidly into her shoulders again. The door to Nick's room somehow slammed open, and then from between her fingers – she'd at least had the good sense to cover her face – she could see a second set of legs appear, pushing Nick away from her. Unconcerned with saving her dress, the girl paused only long enough to get her clutch from the edge of the bed before she ran from the room in her towel and directly into the arms of security. Babbling incoherently, the security staff nodded sympathetically as they led her down the hall and into the elevator, leaving everyone involved – which was now half the floor, as the girl screamed that Nick had lost his mind – wondering how this would be covered up and played down.

* * *

"Fuck! _Fuck!_ " Nick was livid; he'd grabbed another towel from the bathroom to cover himself and was on the floor next to the quilt he'd tripped over. It was Deaglan's peacock quilt, now sporting a large tear through the left of the bird's fanned tail. The fabric was fragile enough from age that Nick's momentum and stomping had destroyed a large section of Hazel's stitching. "What the fuck! What the _fuck!_ How do I fix this? What the fuck do I do to this? I can't fix this!" He wrung the fabric back and forth in his hands, eventually spinning on his knees to face Claudio. "What do I do now, C?"

Claudio, having heard the commotion and come running, made it into the room in time to shove Nick backwards, off the girl, letting her up from the floor and hopefully knocking some sense into his friend at the same time. It hadn't seemed to work; Nick went from rage at the girl to rage at himself, locking his fingers so firmly around the torn fabric that Claudio feared he'd damage it further.

"My friend, I am glad you do not lock doors. And, the quilt is not what you should be concerned with."

"What? No! The quilt! I fucked up her quilt!"

"Nick, you must..." Trailing off, Claudio looked at the shreds of fabric dangling from his friend's hands, "Come. Up on the bed. Nothing more to drink, and I will handle management. But – Nick, you must understand. This is the last time I will do this for you. _You_ must do something about this situation. It is poison to you."

Nick was silent for a few minutes, fiddling with the cap to a mini-bar bottle of Stoli he'd found on the nightstand, and then downing the beverage as though it was water. "She's just gone. Brena, I mean. I don't want her to see this shit, anyway. You know...see what I'm doing," He rubbed his feet back and forth on the carpet, as if he was looking for something, sighed, and spoke again, "I called her, C, before I left the hospital. Meredith knows. Either Brena didn't get the message, or she doesn't care, but..." He pinched the cap from the bottle between his fingers, hard, and the metal folded into sharp edges. His voice was ragged, and the metal dug into his fingers.

"But?" Claudio wanted Nick to think it through, to figure out what was ruining him over Brena's lack of attention, but wasn't sure if this night's events would be enough, though they were certainly enough for Claudio. _'You will not find Brena in an addict. You will not find Brena in a hotel room. But you should go find her, Nick. It will help you. And I cannot continue to help you hide.'_

"But _nothing,_ " Nick spat, "She didn't call back, so she's just over it. Not that there's anything to be over, _that_ would mean she gave a shit in the first place."

Sighing, Claudio pulled Deaglan's ripped quilt from Nick's hands and folded it, then placed Brena's quilt on the bed. "Rest, my friend. You will have some decisions to make in the morning."

"Yeah, like what bar I'm going to, tomorrow night." Nick's tone was more hurt than sarcastic, and Claudio could only shake his head.

"No, my friend. Like what you are going to do with your potential time off. You know this incident will not go unaddressed. Perhaps..." Nick rolled with his back to Claudio as he spoke, so he wisely let it go. Pulling an ottoman up near the loveseat, Claudio put his feet up and settled in, watching Nick's ragged breathing hover somewhere between rage and despair before he fell into an uneasy sleep. Claudio, however, found sleep to be impossible, so he texted Meredith.

 _'Kostbarkeit, is it possible for someone to live and yet be dead?'_

'I dunno, Switzerland. Why? Someone get hurt?'

Smiling at Meredith's pet name for him, and glancing at Nick, he texted back. _'Yes, no, and nearly. I will speak with you soon.'_

* * *

Claudio figured he had time to come up with a plan, but Nick torpedoed that idea without any real effort. The next day, Nick was ordered to report to Talent Relations, where he blamed hotel security for not stopping him from taking the girl to his room. Then, when he was taken to task about his drinking, he blamed booking for giving him an unrelenting schedule with no time to unwind. The end result was that Nick found his TV time cut significantly, though he wasn't given any explicit time off, and was ordered to sober up and give drastic reconsideration to the company he kept – and to adjust it to exclude junkies, alcoholics, and hookers. Claudio was unsurprised with Talent Relations' demands, or with Nick's tantrum-style reaction, but was surprised – and grateful – to hear his phone trill out Meredith's ringtone later that night.

" _Here's hoping your idiot is doing better than my idiot," Meredith whispered. The phone didn't have long to ring before Claudio picked up._

"Meredith? Thank God, kostbarkeit, it is you." Claudio sounded drained, and Meredith wondered what Nick had put him through on that particular night.


	3. Bless The Anchorite

Welcome UselessWithAPen and Debwood1999! And Anguluhhh (whose name I probably just butchered)! And, welcome anyone else I may have missed. AND, LionOfJericho!

Author's Note: If you don't know what an anchorite is, there's a really interesting historical story to be had, there. Right up there with the devil's swimming pools. (Yep, shameless plug for one of my other stories.)

Also – I lost the thumb drive that this chapter was originally on, then by the time I found it, weeks had gone by. Then my muse died. I'm still sticking with the story, it just took a while to get back in the groove.

Thank you ALL for sticking with me. I love my readers, and refused to rush a subpar product.

* * *

"Do I wanna know what a kostbarkeit is, Switzerland?"

"A term of endearment, my darling. I thought we were past formality?"

Chuckling lowly, Meredith swirled her wine glass and settled her head down into the overstuffed throw pillow in her corner of the couch, a shift that produced static on the phone and caused Claudio to raise an eyebrow.

"Are we not past formality, Meredith?" His tone was part teasing, part serious inquiry, and Meredith thought back to the first time they'd gone out together – really gone out, not just spent an afternoon together or had a quick coffee between connecting flights. He'd been enough of a gentleman to at least act like he'd sleep on her couch that night, but they both knew they were kidding themselves. Their dinner together had been largely spent discussing Nick and Brena, their after-dinner drinks were topped off with a discussion of their mutual empty beds, and dessert consisted of a thousand contented sighs between the two of them, Claudio impressed by not just her bedroom, but also her ability to make perfect coffee the next morning. There had been more than a few mornings since then, both of them swearing to say nothing to Nick and Brena, but both of them finding it equally hard to watch their friends self-destruct from within the safety of their own relationship, fledgling though it was. There were times where Meredith was disgusted with herself for even having the idea to talk to Claudio on any sort of a serious level, but he'd called the desk at Magee so many times that she'd found herself memorizing his phone number – and then, as Deaglan's health declined, using it. She'd worried she was just a pity-fuck at first, but when Claudio stayed for both coffee and brunch after their first night together, she'd started to wonder if there might not be something to it.

Pleasantly, there was. Meredith supported his hectic travel schedule – she could be counted on to keep odd hours herself, so she never minded an early or late phone call – and Claudio was more than impressed by her work. Where most people saw a brusque, distant, painfully efficient nurse, Claudio saw a woman with a razor sharp sense of humor, who was also deeply affected by her patients. He'd listened to her sob after Deaglan's autopsy, and swore to himself that at the first opportunity he'd go to see her, to make sure she was okay. What he found wasn't Meredith, wasn't even a shell of her, but he let her cry herself to sleep in his lap all the same, bundling her blankets around them both on her sofa. He'd woken up with a horrible crick in his neck the next morning, a result of sleeping sitting up with her wedged into his lap, but she'd worked him through it and made him promise to come back; a promise he was only too glad to keep.

"Meredith?" She'd gone quiet so long he'd started to wonder if she'd dropped the call.

"Nah, I'm still here," She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and pulled her feet up on the sofa – a move she'd never try in front of Brena, but with her safely asleep for the night, Meredith felt like she could take a few liberties. "It's just been a hell of a day. Yours didn't seem much better when we texted, but that was a while ago. Did things clear up for you? I don't want anything messing up our...well...vacation, I guess."

"Not at all, my dear, though thus far our time together appears safe," Claudio's statement was so casual that Meredith raised an eyebrow, but she let him continue uninterrupted, "Tell me, what has happened to you?"

"To me? Nothing. I'm in Bren's brownstone for the night, and I'm half a bottle into her merlot stash. She needed company; Alison came by and set her off. I can tell you without lookin' that she's sleepin' on the floor even though I put her ass in the bed. It's just _her_ , now. The way she is."

"Set her off?" Claudio puzzled through the expression. "She has fallen from something? Off, I mean. Off the bed? Is this why she is on the floor?"

"In a manner of speaking, C. I forget, I gotta tone down the Americanisms for you. What I mean is," Meredith paused to top off her wine glass, "Alison came by and got Brena all upset. It looked like Bren tried to kill her with a baking dish when I got in here. There was casserole all over the floor, broken glass, and the poor girl – Brena, not Alison – bunched up against the door like she wasn't ever gonna go out again in her life, or else nobody was gonna come in. She's gonna have a bruise on her back from as many times as I hit her with the door, tryin' to get my big ass in here."

"Mein Gott," Claudio breathed, "Brena attacked Alison? What did the girl do? Mein Gott, I know she is not so...nice...but that is so outside of Brena! And you, schnitzel, are not big. Not in the way you mean."

"You're sweet. And, to answer the questions, more like Brena threw the baking dish at Alison. She's too scrawny and tired to be beatin' anyone up. Alison told her to sell the brownstone, so she had it comin'. She followed _that_ up by saying Bren's losing her mind, and then talked some shit about Nick for good measure. Bren's sleepin' on the floor because she doesn't...I dunno. Doesn't wanna be alone."

"Mein _Gott_ ," Claudio seemed unable to find other words, "I can see why Brena would not be happy to hear these things." He said nothing about her being alone, knowing Meredith would fill in those blanks for him.

"And of course, she's missin' Blondie somethin' fierce, so Alison sayin' all her shit about him made it worse. You wouldn't happen to have any news on that front, would you? I know you guys are coming to town soon, but-"

"Oh, mein Gott, Nick, he is no better himself. Security came to his room some nights ago. He brought another woman to his bed-"

" _Asshole_ ," Meredith snarled, and Claudio chuckled.

"Plätzchen, he is seeking what he cannot find because it is not lost."

"Either you're deep, or I'm drunk, but I'm thinkin' we're somewhere in between," Meredith puzzled over his comment, and Claudio was happy to let her have the silence. "We both know Brena still cares about him like he went and hung the moon. She's miserable, though, waitin' on him when he's out bangin' anything that looks at him cross-eyed. That's not gonna work."

"He is looking for _her_ , Meredith. All of these women, they are in some way like Brena. Tall, thin – perhaps a bit too thin – dark hair, very pale, and so on. He feels she is not...what is the word-"

"Nick thinks Brena's off the table for him, the dumbfuck," Meredith groaned, "So he's tryin' to what, conjure her up out of thin air?"

"That, though there is no magic in his actions, and he is more trying to bring his memories to life. He has nothing, Fraulein, he is broken. Drinking to excess, one of the quilts is torn, being thrown away from the ring-"

"Wait, wait," Meredith cut in again, "You guys are _always_ thrown outta that ring. What do you mean? Did he get hurt again?" She paused, as though she hadn't heard Claudio correctly, and shook her head hard, "And what do you mean, about the quilt?"

"I mean, he is not being given as much time to perform, to work in front of a crowd, because of his behavior. First he has no Brena, now he has no audience. As to the quilt, the night security came to his room to rescue the poor woman he was with, he said he tripped over one of the quilts and now, it is torn. The man is losing everything to a broken heart."

"Tell me he was _not_ about to put some two-dollar whore on one of Brena's _family heirlooms_ and fuck her. Tell me, Claudio, that I _don't_ have to shoot him on sight when I run in to him. I don't give a damn what he's drinking or who he's screwing – I mean, I do – but Brena _gave_ those to him, and...and..." Meredith was working herself into hysterics, but Claudio could only shake his head and smile knowingly. Meredith's personality was an acquired taste for some, but he appreciated her fierce love and loyalty toward the people she cared about.

"Based on his reaction, bretzel, it was not his idea. I think the woman assumed too much about Nick's wants and intents."

"He _wants_ Brena but he's dead-fucking-set on _intending_ to be a dickwipe," Meredith fumed, "So, what'd you do to him?"

" _To_ him?" Claudio shrugged reflexively, "Nothing. I put him to bed. He would not hear me even if I tried to talk to him. I am present in his life; it is all I can do until he admits to himself what the true issue is."

"Okay, I'll bite," Meredith mused, "Since I already know that the issue is Brena. What're you gonna do if he ever realizes he fucked up with her – they fucked up with each other, really?"

"Then I will sneak away to a quiet place and call you," Claudio's tone was suddenly light, and Meredith wondered where he was going.

"And, what, try to get them on our phones?" Try as she might, Meredith couldn't figure out what Claudio was getting at, why he'd need to call her about Nick's hypothetical epiphany about Brena.

"No, Meredith. Bring one blond mountain to a very thin molehill, if I am using the phrase correctly. We are in Philadelphia next week, as you have said. We should hope for a miracle, no?"

Meredith almost purred into the phone; Claudio's future visit, even though it would be impacted by his work schedule, was a welcome relief in the face of the chaos of the day. "Bring the mountain to the molehill? You're lucky you're so easy on the eyes, Switzerland. We hafta work on your colloquialisms, though there's other things I'd rather work on."

Claudio's laugh was easy and warm, and they spent the rest of the call chatting about everything and nothing, Meredith missing him terribly and starting to replace her guilt with drunken affection. _'If we work this out right, I won't have anything to be guilty about. We just have to work this out right.'_

* * *

Claudio did his best to keep Nick out of bars and clubs in the time that followed his reduced TV load and largely-unenforceable demand for sobriety. Nick didn't know if he should be grateful that he had the extra time to mull over Brena, thanks to Talent Relations, but mull he did, from the safety of his mini-bar. He had come to Claudio a few days after the conversation with management and operations, and asked him if he wouldn't mind rooming and traveling together. Claudio was only too happy to keep watch over his friend, though he knew it was largely for show and would do little to curb his self-destructive streak. On the night of the disaster with the quilts, Claudio slept in the overstuffed chair near Nick's bed, woken every half-hour or so by his tossing, turning, and calling out in his sleep. He couldn't put anything together out of Nick's fractured words, but trying to make sense of them at least made his time in the armchair bearable. Upon learning that Brena was in no better of a mental place, Claudio and Meredith worked tirelessly to come up with a plan that put everyone in the same place at the same time, knowing full well that Brena couldn't handle watching the impacts and bumps in a live show and Nick would be only too eager to go out to a bar once taping was finished. One way or another, they were determined to bring their friends together, and for once, the WWE's convoluted travel schedule was going to help.

Nick did everything in his power to make life difficult – in fact, his behavior worsened after Claudio's call with Meredith, and it left him wondering if he'd been heard or found out. It took a few days before he put things together – Nick's understanding of the travel schedule suddenly revolved around all things Philadelphia – how far away they currently were, how soon they'd be passing through, and how many days they'd spend in town. His interest was both new and old; he'd been looking for Brena nightly, to no avail, and now she must have felt real to him. The nights Nick spent fixated on Brena's hometown were some of the worst for him, and by default, for Claudio. Nick acted like a petulant and drunken child, doing anything he could to try to both obliterate and rediscover Brena from a distance – he hadn't been back to her city since his discharge from Magee. The east coast made for good crowds and easy travel, with most major cities within spitting distance of each other, on top of the fact Connecticut anchored Stephanie and Paul's homelife. Claudio knew that within the string of tour dates coming up was a stop in Philly – what he didn't know was how Nick would handle it when it came.

* * *

"C'mon, Bren, scrub faster," Meredith shouted over the roar of the vacuum, "You're not making progress pokin' at the same spot for an hour."

Brena didn't understand Meredith's sudden fascination with cleaning the brownstone, but chalked it up to an attempt at snapping her out of her funk. _'It's certainly something, anyway. I don't think it's been this clean since...well, since Hazel. It's just me here, though, I don't need to do all of this.'_

She had no idea that the week-long cleaning spree after Meredith's phone call was in anticipation of a houseguest she knew nothing about, though one Meredith and Claudio were only too happy to deposit on her doorstep.

* * *

"Nick, my friend, you must stop with this drinking you are doing. Consider sobriety, if only for a moment. And a shower, for several moments. Take advantage of the hotel facilities while we are here, eh?"

Claudio was working on a cleansing of his own – trying to get Nick to give his liver a days' rest and detox, and encouraging some passable level of hygiene. _'This will not work if you are a stinking wretch when we get there. Actually, perhaps I should find some new attire for myself, to take Meredith out to dinner.'_

"Fuck off, C. I get what you're doin', and you can leave me the fuck alone."

"I am doing nothing but making sure you are sanitary," Claudio walked to the bathroom, lifted a stack of towels from the counter, and threw them at Nick. "Truly, my friend. You are not well. Is this part of going to Philadelphia this afternoon, or is something else amiss?"

"You know what? I shouldn't even _have_ to fucking go. I get to suck face with CJ for ten seconds until her fatass furball comes out and punches me a few times before trying to sit _through_ me. Tell me why I need to shower for that?" _'And her lipstick is gross. It's sticky. The stuff Brena had was...soft? Nice. Not sticky. And not lipstick.'_

"My friend, it is because we travel in the same car," Claudio took hold of Nick by the shoulders and directed him toward the bathroom, "And so, you will be clean enough to travel with." Grousing, Nick went into the bathroom, towels in hand, and started a shower. There were still several hours between the shower and Philadelphia, but Claudio would take what he could get. In some ways, so would Nick.

* * *

Meredith and Claudio decided there was no point in trying to take Brena to the show; she'd have a nervous breakdown watching Nick in action, and anything they had to say to each other would be better handled in a less-public setting than the backstage area. Instead, Meredith suggested Claudio and Nick meet her and Brena at McCaffrey's after the show. Claudio was happy to agree; Nick would have a night's sobriety along with a good cup of coffee, and Claudio could simply take Meredith away from her latte and out to a meal. Their final hurdle was getting both of their charges to cooperate – no small task. Brena hated to go out, and Nick would complain about the lack of alcohol. Still, it was worth a shot. Failing that, Meredith planned on forcing Brena to her car and taking her directly to Nick's hotel room – fate could sort out what followed.

* * *

"You look like you're looking for something."

"Huh? Me? Uh, no, nobody. Nothing. I mean, just looking around, but no. Nothing."

Meredith was so distracted that Brena didn't believe her for a second. Her head had been on a perpetual swivel since she and Brena sat down in the coffee shop, and Brena couldn't put together why. Meredith hadn't mentioned bringing any friends along, and if she was worried about Alison showing up, she shouldn't have been. Wisely, she'd chosen to walk a wide circle around Brena since their incident with the casserole, and hadn't bothered to call or stop by. Resigning herself to sitting through yet another latte with her highly-distracted friend, Brena walked up to the counter to purchase their next beverages, deciding at the last second to add a brownie to the mix. While she waited to pay, Meredith popped up out of her seat as though she was on fire.

"Shit! I mean, uh, I have to go pee! Fuckin' coffee. Bren, I'll be right back, just wait at the table for me, okay?" She was off like a shot before Brena could get her change back into her wallet, bee-lining for the bathrooms down the long hall at the back of the cafe. Counting on Brena being distracted, she grabbed her purse off the table as she went, rushing across the floor. There was an exit door at the end of the hallway, but it never crossed Brena's mind that Meredith might go outside, around the building, and back up the block to her car. Sighing, she picked up their lattes and shuffled back to their table, her back to the door.

* * *

"Aw, c'mon, C, what the fuck is this?"

Brena's back was to the large storefront windows both while she stood in line and while she waited alone for Meredith; Nick hadn't seen her yet, and had opted to balk at the entrance, staring up at the awning and trying to untangle why the name of the cafe seemed so familiar but so foreign at the same time.

"This is a cafe, Nick. We can have coffee here. Surely that is not a mystery to you?" Claudio, knowing Brena and Meredith were inside, wanted to spend no more time than was absolutely necessary debating the merits of brewed coffee versus coffee-flavored liqueur in mixed drinks. The longer they stood outside, the more risk there was that Brena would turn around and potentially see Nick before he went in, giving them both an opportunity to compound their stupidity by running, hiding, and generally continuing to avoid each other.

"I know what it _is_ , but that's not the fuckin' point! I didn't ask for a babysitter. Isn't there a bar around here?"

Rolling his eyes and nearly stomping a foot, Claudio jammed his hands in his pockets and shook his head. "My friend. _Please_. Let us do this. I would like _one_ cup of coffee that has not come from a hotel bathroom or airplane hot-pot. If you will have one drink with me, I will have _several_ with you. Go ahead and order. I will get my wallet from the vehicle," Making a show out of patting down his coat pockets, Claudio nodded pointedly at the door, willing Nick to go through it rather than follow him back to their ride.

Glowering up at the awning, Nick looked from it back to Claudio several times, knowing that his offer was the closest thing to a compromise that he was going to get. "One – and I mean only _one_ – coffee. I'm not gonna sit here all fuckin' night," He pushed the door open and angled to get in line ahead of the other customers, not wanting to wait if they ordered anything complicated or large. The cold outside air sucked into the cafe in a giant gust, fluttering tablecloths and causing everyone inside to grumble and shiver, Brena included. She half-looked over her shoulder toward the entrance, then froze, unsure if she should run – or where.


	4. Amitriptyline, Meet Oxytocin

I'm Baaaaack...

Thank you, and welcome, to everyone new who jumped on board, including AmyTheTattooed, bellarhodes, Anguluh, and anyone I may have missed.

Onward!

* * *

Spring in Philadelphia was an unforgiving thing. Thinly tepid during the day, it often gave way to a wet chill that bordered on frost during the night. It was that chill that sucked forcefully into McCaffrey's when Nick opened the door; it didn't care what tablecloth it fluttered or whose coffee it cooled. Licking around Brena's ankles, the gust of air was just enough to shift her attention away from the long hall Meredith ran down, and over toward the entrance. _'People know not to stand there with the door open when it's cold out – that's one of the perks of McCaffrey's. The fireplace. Keeps the heat up.'_ She glanced over her shoulder as she put down the brownie, then froze in shock, only half-seated in the booth with her now-free hand holding the edge of the table. The other hand had the good sense to release her latte over the table, rather than over the floor. The glass mug landed with a bang, and the sound was enough to jolt the people in the coffee shop back into motion.

All of them except Nick and Brena.

The barista crept around the end of the counter, watching Nick and Brena as they eyed each other warily, finally getting close enough to Nick to lift his hand from the door handle and push it closed behind him. Not knowing what to say to the interloper near the entrance, or to the sudden mute who had now managed to seat herself properly in the third booth on the left, the barista shrugged and shuffled back behind the counter, not wanting the line of customers to grow any longer than it already was.

* * *

Nick didn't know what to do. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, blocking the doorway, staring at Brena – and she was staring right back at him – until another person tried unsuccessfully to barge through. Whoever it was slammed the door into him, snapping the back of his head into the door and jolting him a few feet forward. The sudden motion seemed to jolt something loose in Brena as well, and she rushed up to Nick, who was rubbing the back of his head.

"Nick! Nick. Oh my goodness. Come here, sit down. You've hit your head, and I-"

Try as she might – and Brena was pulling mightily on Nick, trying to guide him by his shoulder and elbow, to turn him toward her booth – Nick refused to budge. His hand slowly dropped from the back of his head and came to rest against the side of Brena's face, fingers playing at the feather-edges of her hair. He squinted down at her, almost unsure of who he was seeing, until Brena shifted her hands to cover Nick's. Then, butter-soft skin and warm memories of ginger and smoke flooded his senses, and he locked his arms around her so firmly that Brena felt her shoulders grind due to the force with which he was compressing her against his chest.

Fear was the last emotion Nick was expecting, but as soon as he snatched Brena into his arms, he felt a nauseating wave of it overtake him. _'I just got hit in the head. That door is really fuckin' heavy and it hit me in the head. I'm gonna look down and it's not gonna be her, it's gonna be some woman who's scared as shit, doesn't know me, and thinks I'm fuckin' crazy.'_ Daring himself to hunt for clues that it was Brena he'd grabbed, he leaned down into the crook of her neck, angling so her hair would fall against his face, and breathed deeply. _'It's her. It's ginger and smoke and that time we fell asleep together on my bed and it's gotta be her.'_

As if she was reading Nick's mind, Brena tilted ever so slightly, so she could speak quietly to him – she knew she wasn't getting out of his vice-grip until he chose to let go.

"Yes, mo trodaire. You've found me."

Nick still couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, even as he loosened his arms and let her turn back toward her booth. He managed a few blind steps forward, Brena holding his hand to guide him, before he thought he could test reality's limits by actually _looking_ at her. She glanced over her shoulder as they walked, acutely aware of how many sets of eyes were focused on them – the patrons in the coffee shop were curious as to who had blocked the door and then pounced on Brena – but she chose to ignore the stares and continue to walk. _'After the ridiculous thing I did to him before I left, I owe him this much. At least a conversation, or an explanation. An apology and some finality.'_

Slowly, Nick sank into the booth across from Brena, and reached across the table for her hands. Brena moved as cautiously as Nick, and he closed his hands tightly around hers when she offered them.

"Nick, I...it's..." She trailed off, entirely unsure of where to start or how to continue if she did manage to put together a coherent opening sentence.

"Bren, you're really...here...right?"

Brena looked up and crinkled an eyebrow before squeezing Nick's hands. "Of course I am. I told you, mo trodaire, you've found me. Heaven only knows how, though I imagine we have Meredith to thank for that. Well, her, and whomever brought you here tonight," She paused for a second, knowing she was rambling, but pressed on regardless, "Oh...oh, no...Nick, you didn't walk here, did you? There's no hotels around here, you must've walked for blocks if you came by foot. The only arena is miles from here. Here, I can dri-"

"I called you."

Brena snapped her mouth closed, feeling her eyes go wide and the room become just a bit too bright for its own good. "Nick...you couldn't have. I know I gave you my number, but I never got a phone call from you. Not the day of the media event, and not the day of..." _'Brena, stop. Stop speaking until you've had a chance to think. You're being impulsive and look at what a mess you made of things last time you decided to be rash.'_

"It was..." Nick cleared his throat, and Brena squeezed his hands again trying to urge him on, "It _was_ the day of the funeral reception. I don't know who answered your phone – it wasn't you – but I didn't get to leave a message. It..." Nick thought for a second, debating whether or not to throw Meredith under the bus for not telling Brena that he'd called, "It was loud where you were, and shit was going on at the hospital so it was loud there, too, and whoever answered your phone hung up on me."

Brena pulled one hand from his much more roughly than she meant, and it flew to cover her mouth. Her eyes were now almost painfully wide, and Nick wrapped both of his hands around the one she'd been kind enough to leave in his grip, though she'd started to turn and slide down the booth.

"Bren, don't."

Frantic, Brena looked toward the hallway Meredith disappeared down long ago, then the door, and then finally back at Nick, slowly dropping her hand from her mouth, "Don't...don't what?"

"I dunno. Don't leave? Don't be angry? We fixed it, right? I mean, you're here, I'm here – my fuckin' head hurts, but I'm here – and I mean...it's _enough_ , you know? This is okay now, right?" Carefully, he let go of Brena's hand long enough to slide her latte and long-forgotten brownie to the back of the table, then reached for her again.

"This never should have _happened_ ," Brena whispered as she slid back properly into the booth. She swallowed hard, trying to find strength to put into her voice, "You were absolutely _silent_. It was _easier_ when I thought you just didn't call – like you'd moved on. I didn't have your number and Meredith wasn't allowed to give it to me from your chart; some sort of medical rule. You say you called, but then you _never_ called me again. We're here now, but...Nick, it's been clear for some time that you moved on from our..." Brena stopped to take a breath, her words full of pressure and urgency as they left her, and she was lost in thought as she exhaled. _'Oh, Lord love a duck, what do I call it? It wasn't a relationship. I_ _was indulgent, it was wishful thinking, and then that ridiculous kiss. Let him go away from this with a clean conscience.'_ Shaking her head and preparing to continue, she started again. "You've made it clear you've moved on from whatever our relationship...er...friendship was, at Magee. I was intrusive, I overstepped my boundaries when I kissed you, I wasn't thinking clearly, I was grieving, and-"

* * *

Nick had held Brena's hand through her entire speech, listening with what he hoped was a patient and respectful look on his face. Suddenly, he slid his hand up to her wrist and yanked, pulling her forward over the table just as he lunged forward with what he knew was equal and unnecessary speed. His aim wasn't the best; he came in a bit low and connected more with her chin than her lips – worrying that he'd end up banging his teeth into hers was an unnecessary concern. He persevered, loosening his grip on her wrist and starting to circle his thumb there gently, to rub away the red mark he was fairly sure he'd created. Nick knew he couldn't try to keep Brena over the table for too long; the angle would be terrible for her shoulders while she held herself up, but in the moment, he couldn't stop himself from kissing her – and miraculous wonder, she was kissing him in return.

* * *

Brena knew she was rambling at Nick. She didn't know what she was trying to prove, to explain, but there she was, insisting, no, _telling_ him, he'd moved on. Meanwhile, the back of her mind demanded she stop denying her feelings, that she tell Nick she missed him terribly – and more. Brena wasn't prepared for the motion that suddenly came from him while she engaged in her inner war, and she had to brace herself against the edge of the table to keep from falling over, her shoulder giving up a warning twinge as she flew forward toward Nick. She tried to dodge him at the last possible second, but it was no use. Suddenly, the back of her mind, ever so used to being muzzled and tamped down, came cartwheeling forward, joyful and wild, thoughts and actions swarming into her consciousness like bees from a hive, and she realized – she _wanted_ to kiss him. And so, she did.

* * *

"Did she move yet, or does she still look like she's gonna have a heart attack?" Meredith, having run out of McCaffrey's through the back door and around the block, now leaned against the cafe's plate glass window, trying to angle herself just-so to avoid the reflection and be able to see what Brena was doing without being spotted herself.

Claudio was faring no better after returning from his vehicle; the glare from the nearby street lamp made it difficult to see Nick's expression, despite being tall enough to have a good angle. "I am not sure, Fraulein. It might be best if we go in. This does not seem to be going as well as we hoped."

"Nope. They have to figure this shit out themselves. Bren's been dancing around this for months, she's gotta get it out of her system." Meredith latched her fingers firmly into Claudio's coat sleeve; she knew she couldn't really prevent him from going in to McCaffrey's if he got it in his head to do so, but she felt like she should try to plead her case, "And think of all the shit Nick's put you through. He's gotta think this through on his own, not go running to you for all the answers. It's not like he's _listening_ to what you're sayin', anyway."

Claudio nodded, but a puzzled look crossed his face soon after. "Fraulein, you said Brena is dancing again? You had said she was staying only in the brownstone, was she not? Or is this another one of your...Americanisms, as you say? I do not understand how she would dance around an issue. An issue is not an object."

Meredith turned her attention away from the window, where Nick and Brena had still not moved, chuckled, and squeezed herself even tighter against Claudio, "Yep. One of those Americanisms. You remember the one about the mountain and the molehill, when we talked about setting this up?"

"Not so clearly, but I believe I do remember enough. Why do you ask, pfirsich?" Claudio turned her in his arms, but she brushed his hands off of her and adjusted her coat firmly.

"We're about to start some movin', but if I need more oomph you're gonna have to help me on the second try. Just watch inside the window and tell me how I did." Meredith peered through the window one last time to be sure Nick was the only person standing in front of the door inside the cafe, walked over, and lined herself up with the entrance. Taking a deep breath, she backed up to the very edge of the curb, directly against the road, and took off at a dead run. She shoulder-checked the door as hard as she could, slamming it as far forward as her short-yet-stout frame would allow – it _was_ an inches-thick oak door – and directly into Nick's back.

"Mein Gott!" Claudio immediately abandoned his position at the window and ran over to Meredith, who was rubbing her shoulder and trying to decide if she wanted to grin or grimace. "You will break your arm! Your shoulder! What was the purpose of such a thing? There is a _handle_ on the door if you wanted to purchase a coffee!" He fussed over her shoulder and elbow, but Meredith brushed him off and trotted over to the window.

"Mountain, meet molehill. You wanted to know the purpose, come take a look." She gestured at the window, and Claudio couldn't resist a smile of his own once he looked inside – Nick, having been shoved forward by Meredith's door-tackle, had Brena in his arms. From the looks of things, he might have been holding her a titch too hard for breathing, but he was holding her all the same.

"Our work here is done, Switzerland. Time for dinner," Meredith spun around in front of Claudio and made an exaggerated, grand gesture down the sidewalk, "And, I don't want them to catch us out here. They'll figure it out eventually, anyhow, but let them have tonight."

"Let us have tonight as well, Fraulein," Claudio directed a devilish expression at Meredith as he escorted her his vehicle and opened the door, "I can assure you, it will be...full of purpose."


	5. Sins of the Many, Sins of the Few

They lingered over the table, working the kiss into something more like...well, like a kiss, and less like a sloppy face-mash. Brena's left shoulder advanced from a dull ache to a sharp pain, and Nick's ribs argued the merits of keeping the edge of the table wedged into them, but neither of them were willing to be the first to break away. _'She still tastes like honey,'_ Nick mused, _'And like coffee, too. I remember that coffee from Magee...she brought it in all the time.'_

Brena didn't know she could smile and kiss someone at the same time; while the expression and motion together didn't feel awkward to her, she wasn't sure they wouldn't feel awkward to Nick. Everything suddenly seemed familiar and warm to her; his cologne was the same one he wore so many times at the hospital; all deep reassurance and something rich and thick she felt she could roll herself into and not let go of. Her body decided that 'letting go' was going to be a decision made solely by her left shoulder, and so it gave way, pitching her sharply down and away from him, though she tried desperately to push herself back up to him, to not make him feel she'd moved away out of a sudden change of heart.

Expecting to find any number of emotions floating in Nick's eyes when she looked up, and hopeful they'd be positive, she found to her surprise that his eyes were closed, his face blank and tilted down toward the table, the slightest hitch in his breathing, and an unsettling, complete stillness in the rest of his body. As she'd done so many times before, Brena simply waited for him to speak.

"I never... _moved on_ , Bren."

Quietly adjusting herself back into the booth, bringing her hands over his, Brena wanted to be reassuring without being overbearing. "I just thought...Nick...now I know things are-"

"I _never moved on_ , Brena," More forceful this time, and louder, Nick was determined to say what he needed to, before he lost his nerve. "The day I left Magee, I asked the cab driver to find you, but I didn't know _how_ to fuckin' find you. Can you believe it? Six fuckin' months together, and I didn't know your last name, to tell a driver, 'Brena So-and-So, it's a brownstone by a bakery and a florist.' I hate when catering sets up gingersnaps on the buffet line, because it kinda smells like you, but it's _not enough_ like you. I hate the shit I did... _do_...to try to find you." There, Nick paused, and Brena watched his face pale, as though he was struggling with a secret undeserving of the luxury. Gagging on the words, he tried to explain, "Brena, the shit I do...you're gonna fuckin' hate me. You remember what Stephen did...tried to do. I'm like that, anymore. I'm shit." _'And here it goes. It went. Goodbye. At least I got to kiss her before I tell her I'm fuckin' trash. She trusted me with those quilts, and look what I did. And I have to tell her. I mean, I don't have to tell her, but I have to tell her.'_

"No, Nick. Not at all. I refuse to believe I would hate you, or that you could be anything like that awful man. Stubborn, yes, but what's the worst you could have done to find me? Groused at a taxi driver? Been surly at an airport? Made an irritable phone call or two?" Brena smiled and rubbed her thumbs over the backs of his hands, trying to will away the ugly concern that clouded Nick's face. It didn't work, and Brena's smile slowly faded when Nick had no reaction at all to her words. "Nick? Talk to me. Something's not sitting right with you."

"Brena, I don't mean _find_ you, I knew where you were. I mean, I didn't _know_ where you were, like, where you really lived and shit, but you were _here._ Philadelphia. I at least had a place to start, you know? I mean find _you_." Louder and louder as he pushed on, Nick knew he was beginning to attract attention to himself, and he didn't care.

"I don't understand," Brena crimped her eyebrows together; try as she might, she couldn't make sense of Nick's words. Noticing that a great many of the patrons were still cued in to Nick due to his volume, Brena tightened her hands around his as firmly as she could, and tried again, "Here, listen. I'm willing to bet you have to leave tomorrow, or perform, or any number of things that will make this impossible. But...I _do_ want…I mean, can we..." Brena trailed off and gulped at the air, looking around the room for inspiration and finding none coming. "Can we go back to the brownstone? When you were at Magee, I...uh, I always wanted you to see it. Deaglan would have wanted it, too."

Slowly, cautiously, Nick slid from the booth, Brena matching him in pace as they walked to the door. _'He agreed. Okay. Let's just get to the door, and get out. Something's off about him right now, and it doesn't help that he got hit in the head. Again.'_ Brena had managed to snag a decent parking spot, and it was a short walk to what was left of her SUV. She was eminently relieved that he'd have leg room, but was equally chagrined that he'd have to submit to being driven in what was essentially a vehicle held together by good luck and duct tape. Nick seemed oblivious to the condition of the SUV, and let himself in the passenger side as though he was in a trance. Sighing, Brena walked around to the driver's side and prayed for luck with the ignition.

Normally, Brena would have walked the few blocks to McCaffrey's, but the weather was cold, it was late, and she thought she'd be driving Meredith home – though she now had no idea where her friend went – so she was willing to put up with the annoyance of her vehicle. Now, Brena was glad she drove; the SUV cut the time spent in suddenly awkward silence with Nick down to a few minutes, instead of what would have been several times that by foot. Pulling into her spot in front of the bakery and her brownstone, Brena cut the ignition and unbuckled her seatbelt, waiting for Nick to do the same. He seemed lost, looking around like he wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up there. Sighing, and resigning herself to playing a role she'd long ago given up – that of caretaker – Brena leaned over and pressed the latch on Nick's seatbelt, easing it across his lap. The maneuver required her to nearly lay across him to prevent the belt from snapping up into his face, and he clutched her tightly, as though he thought she appeared out of thin air and might vaporize again if he let go.

"Nick, come on. Let's go inside. It's cold out here," Looking past him and out the window, she struggled, "I just want you to see it. You don't have to stay after, if you don't want to." She pushed out of his grasp and opened her door, closing it firmly as she left the SUV. Waiting on her front stoop without looking back, Brena jumbled her keys together. _'I can't make him come in. I can't figure him out if he won't talk. I have no idea what to do. Uncle D, where are you when I need you?'_

 _'Is she asking me to stay? I wanna stay, but is she gonna want that after we talk? I shouldn't tell her anything. No, fuck it, I'm not gonna tell her anything. She has no idea what I was really doing. I get a free pass with her, and I'm gonna keep it that way. I can't keep it that way. I have to tell her about the quilt.'_ Shaking his head harshly, Nick left the SUV and joined Brena at her door, reaching for her hand and kissing the top of her head while she organized her keys.

The interior of Brena's brownstone was exactly like what Nick had expected and nothing like what Nick had expected. He recognized the warm-colored kitchen counter and antique Wedgwood, though the toaster oven made no sense in contrast. Hazel's quilts were laid neatly over every couch and armchair – except the one heaped in a corner, which Nick found odd. Brena hadn't cleared any of Deaglan's books off of the end tables; Nick wasn't surprised by that – his death was still too raw, but the odd piles they were in made no sense, given how organized she kept the room at the hospital. The scent, though – oh, the scent. Ginger, everywhere, and almonds, and the smoky undertone that Nick now learned came from a bottle of oil with a carmine-colored label printed with Chinese script. He remembered Brena's story about taking Deaglan to the Chinatown neighborhood of Philadelphia for his birthday, and wondered if it was something she'd picked up during that visit, but didn't want to pry – or unearth any more sorrow than was necessary.

Once the tour was over, she and Nick returned to the parlor, with Brena starting a crackling fire in the fireplace and Nick marveling at how she maneuvered the chains and pulls of the damper before moving to the kitchen. Brena couldn't help but laugh; to her it was second nature, a simple game of adjustments and shifts until things worked just-so. To Nick, it was far too complicated and required manipulations too delicate for his clumsy hands. He huddled in towards the flames, unsure of where to sit, and shifted from foot to foot, waiting.

"Wine?" Brena had to shout a bit to be heard across the span of the brownstone, "Actually, no. Let's be properly Irish and celebrate friends and family tonight. Whiskey! I've got so many bottles; they're all Deaglan's and Hazel's and God knows who else, and what better time to open them than now?"

For a fraction of a second, Nick cringed – Claudio had been adamant that Nick curb his drinking; Talent Relations had been far _more_ than adamant, but then he figured Brena wouldn't let him get so deep into a bottle that he'd be a wreck in the morning. "Friends and family?" _'She was so...frustrated...with me, in the car, but she sounds so happy now. What changed? And am I gonna ask?'_

"Well, yes. Through serendipity or plotting, you're back in my life as of tonight. And for better or worse, we're in my family home tonight. So, yes, tonight, to friends and family." Walking cautiously so as not to spill, and holding a long, silver tray, Brena moved from the kitchen to the parlor, where she found Nick standing, still looking into the fire. She placed the tray on the coffee table and filled a tumbler to hand to him before filling one for herself, gently tapping the edge of her glass against his and staring in to the fire along with him.

"Just tonight, Bren?" Nick's voice came out far more unsure than Brena expected, and she wasn't sure how to answer him.

 _'What on earth is he looking for? He's leaving, I'm sure, in the next few days. In the morning, even. Does he mean he'd rather stay here than whatever hotel he's at? Of course, that's fine, I've got extra bedrooms. That must be what he means. Good grief, Brena, you haven't even had a proper conversation with the man and here you are, letting your imagination run off and leave your common sense upside down.'_ "Nick," Brena paused, and looked around. The sofa was too far back from the fireplace, which they'd both gravitated toward. The floor was, well, a floor – wooden, cold, and uncomfortable. "Here, hold this for a second." She passed her tumbler to him and scuttled around the room, gathering quilts – all but the one that was heaped in the corner of the parlor. Piling them on the floor, fussing and fluffing at them, Brena toed off her shoes before stepping into the pile of fabric, sitting down, and gesturing for her drink. "Come on. Shoes off, and sit with me for a while. This is a bit like the PT room, but-"

"Drinks instead of cake." Nick smiled wanly, and passed Brena's drink down to her before kicking off his shoes and stepping gingerly onto the quilts. _'Don't fuck up, Nemeth, don't fuckin' rip another quilt. You gotta tell her. You said you weren't gonna tell her, maybe don't tell her how...er, why...but you gotta tell her.'_ He sipped at his drink, sat down, and watched Brena out of the corner of his eye, wondering where on earth to begin.

Somehow, Brena always knew how to make it easy for him. She might not always have understood what he told her, or read the signals that he sent, but she always managed to give him the right opening at the right time.

"O'Keefe."

Looking at Brena like she'd just babbled out nonsense syllables, Nick waited for her to go on. "You said we spent six months together and you didn't know my last name. Yours is Nemeth – or at least, I _hope_ it is and that's not a stage name – and mine is O'Keefe. I don't understand why you were upset about the cookies, though. You'd only ever had the cake I made for Deaglan's birthday, and a cinnamon roll from the bakery. I don't think I ever brought cookies."

"Because – and this is gonna sound dumb – well, maybe it won't, but the first night I was there, that quilt you gave me smelled like you. Ginger. Kinda smoky, too, but a lot like ginger. And it was just _nice_ , you know? It was warm, and it wasn't a shitty hospital blanket. So...when catering puts out those crappy little cookies that sorta smell like ginger, it's like, 'Oh, gee, hey, remember that person who was _nice_ to you, _cared_ about you, _didn't_ know you and didn't even _have_ to do that shit for you, but then I fucked up and _didn't_ -" Nick cut himself off, hard, and drank to occupy his mouth.

"Didn't what, mo trodaire?" Brena was quiet, and leaned in toward Nick, hoping he was close to explaining whatever it was that he couldn't make sense of at the cafe.

"I didn't _tell_ you!" Nick fairly exploded; his whiskey splashed back and forth in his tumbler and he slammed it back in a single swallow. Brena cringed; she knew it wasn't a good idea to drink that much that fast, and this was the type of alcohol that didn't come with a 'proof' printed on the label – only a vintage. Thumping his tumbler down on the floor, Nick snatched Brena's from her hands, put it heavily on the coffee table, and held her firmly by the shoulders. "I – no, _we_ – fuckin' circled around shit for _so_ long, Bren. I _always_ had women like Alison. Loud. Bitchy. They knew _who_ I was; I knew _what_ they were. Whatever they wanted, they got. But you, you didn't fuckin' know, or care, who I was, and _that_ was...it was…." Nick had started to sway a bit, and Brena reached around his arms to hold his shoulders, trying to keep him still.

"Here, Nick. Let's slow down a bit," Brena was unsure of what was going on, had no idea what she could do about it, and knew Nick had even less of a grasp on things than she did, "You're right, I didn't know who you were, and in most ways I still don't. To me, it didn't matter. It still doesn't. But I don't understand, what do you mean we circled around-"

"This!" Nick roared, and dragged Brena up into another kiss, managing to lift her entirely off the quilt and up onto her knees, before pushing her roughly away and dropping her down. "And this!" Less loud, he pulled her up again, also with less force, vaguely realizing he didn't need to manhandle her to make his point, before lowering her back to the quilt. "And, this," quietly now, he spoke, brushing her snarled hair gently out of her face before he leaned down to kiss her, this time not moving her from where she sat. She was stunned, barely moving, not knowing what to do or how to interpret what he'd done, hovering somewhere in the no-man's-land of realizing he was too lost in the immediate onset of his drunkenness to know what he was doing, being a bit afraid of the size imbalance between them, and understanding what he meant – they'd both cared for each other in ways that flew past roommate and friend, and were trying to find a sensible way, in the midst of a nonsensical night, to acknowledge those feelings.

Brena was wide-eyed when Nick finally backed away enough to get a clear look at her, and he felt sick at what he'd done. He hadn't meant to scare her, he didn't want to hurt her, and he knew he'd just treated her the way he'd treated each and every one of the women he met and used after his stay at the hospital but before this strange and wonderful night, the ones who he thought might convince him, momentarily, that he hadn't lost Brena. The ones who, if Nick squinted hard enough, he could imagine as Brena next to him in bed, until they wheezed, or retched, and the illusion broke, turning back into whatever drug-sick doppelganger he'd dragged back to his hotel room that evening.

"Jesus," Nick breathed out, trying to will his stomach back down to a proper, less nauseated position, "Shit, Brena, I'm sorry, that was too-"

"Nick?" Brena whispered, reaching up toward his face, but stopping halfway there, unsure of where to safely put her hand. "I understand. I should have heard you when we fell asleep together before Halloween, or went to the roof for fireworks. When we had dinner in the cafeteria and you let me talk and you _listened_. I should have heard you when you...when you stayed with me as Deaglan passed. I didn't hear you, then. But, now-"

Deciding Nick's hand would be a safe option, Brena gently grasped at it and leaned up into a kiss of her own, much more easy and relaxed than any of Nick's attempts that night, and Nick responded gently in kind. "There," Brena breathed against his lips, "That's better. Slow down a bit. You've not made me hate you. And we've got all night to sort things out. More than all night, if you want, and it seems we've finished circling around things. I'm not of a mind to have you leave, either. You don't have to keep looking, mo trodaire. As I've said, you've found me."

Nick cringed, and backed Brena off of him, gesturing for her to refill his tumbler. Confused, she did, and then topped off her own. "I...uh...I should just tell you. I fucked up, Bren. I don't wanna take up your evening, I'm just gonna say it and then go, because you aren't gonna want me to stay." Brena barely opened her mouth to speak, but Nick held up his hand and she stopped. "Look. I missed you. I mean, I really fuckin' missed you. I started drinkin', and kept drinkin', and then I was _really_ drinkin', and then I was tryin' to...I mean..." Nick sighed and raked a hand through his hair, forcing himself to look at Brena. "I was _looking_ for you, because you _weren't_ there. I started pickin' up women who looked like you." Brena's face contorted, and Nick couldn't tell if it was revulsion or confusion. She quickly shifted back to blank, so he kept talking, "At first it was just company, and then it was a lot _more_ than company. Some were just fans, some were rats, drunk, high…when it was bad, they were all of it. But I was fuckin' 'em. A lot of 'em. One girl got tangled up in your quilts, and she tried to run. I was drunk and screamin' at her, scared the shit outta her. I don't know if it was her or me, prolly both, but the quilt tore when she took off." Nick looked down, into his tumbler, shrugged, and drank, waiting for what he believed would be the inevitable explosion from Brena.

Through the whole thing, Brena held still, the only clue to her emotions the slight ripple in her whiskey from the tremor in her hands. Quietly, she sighed, then sipped her drink, and refused to look up. "You've brought the quilts with you, Nick?"

"Uh?" Nick looked confused, then looked at Brena like he didn't understand what she asked, "Uh, yeah, I did. I mean, I do. I always bring them. I take a second suitcase. They're at the hotel, I just don't take out the one that's torn, now. I, uh, I worry I'm gonna make it worse. It's...it's the one with the peacock on it."

Quieter, now, and with a much more noticeable tremor in her hands, Brena took a much heavier drink from her tumbler, but didn't look up at Nick. "You've seen the quilt in the corner of the room, then? You must've; you've looked at it twice tonight. You've just been kind enough not to ask about it."

Nick hadn't realized how far forward he had to lean in to hear Brena speak until he realized how tired his arm felt from his leaning on it. Adjusting closer to her, he spoke quietly. "The one that's all bunched up? Yeah, Bren. It's weird for you. You always sounded like you took care of Hazel's stuff."

"It's torn. Straight through, pattern and backing, batting's all come out, it's a mess."

Nick wrinkled his brows; Brena still hadn't looked up at him, but drank again, hitting the bottom of her tumbler much faster than he expected of her and pouring another for herself with tremendously unsteady hands. Gently, he reached toward her and steadied the bottle of whiskey, then put her tumbler on the floor next to her, rather than let her drink more. "Now I'm gonna tell _you_ to slow down. What the fuck happened that one of Hazel's quilts got tore up _here_?"

"I...thought I was doing the right thing. Trying to be more social instead of hole up in here all the time, and trying to stop a drunk from driving home. I went to a pub – not Deaglan's, just some random spot nearby, but nothing I ever usually went to; Meredith didn't even know I went – and met someone," Nick sniffed derisively, "And we'd had a drink or two. We didn't meet intentionally; I went out for a pint and he just came over and started up a conversation. It was _happenstance,_ I really _wasn't_ looking. Well...I don't know if that's the truth, either. Alison was here, and that was a whole _different_ sort of disaster, but I felt like...like...oh, I don't know. Like maybe she was right. Like I was failing, somehow. Dying. So maybe I _was_ looking to invite trouble, I couldn't tell you. But I ended up at a pub, and I ended up talking to someone. I didn't feel comfortable letting him drive home; he said lived cross-town. What I _thought_ I was doing was having him come up for a pot of coffee, so he'd sober up. I _wasn't_ interested in anything else."

Brena sighed, and fumbled around for her tumbler, but Nick moved it out of her reach again. Rolling her eyes, Brena resigned herself to finishing her story without the benefit of whiskey for courage, "Nick, what do I know about relationships? Not a thing, that's what. He _said_ he lived cross-town; it was probably a lie. How would I know? _But_ , he had it in his head that I was bringing him upstairs for a roll around the sheets. When I told him that wasn't happening, he was furious. Started knocking things around the brownstone on his way out the door, and the last thing he did was snatch the quilt off the back of the sofa and tear it straight in two."

"Bren, does this asshole still show up at the pub?"

"I wouldn't know, Nick. I haven't been back myself. Like I said, it wasn't my usual spot."

 _'Maybe we oughta go, just so I can say hello to him._ ' "Okay, so he was out the door, but what about the quilt now?" Nick spun himself around behind Brena, reaching awkwardly for a throw pillow from the sofa and wedging it behind him against the coffee table before he pulled her against his side – the position was all manner of uncomfortable and ill-advised, but he was going to do his damnedest to try to hold her.

"I was terrified. I turned all the locks on the door and ran to the attic. I know, I know, it's _every_ bad stereotype from _every_ bad horror movie, but I wanted somewhere I could...hide, I suppose. I was convinced he was going to come back in. Nick, he was _so_ angry. Granted, he left, but not without making a scene. I _hadn't_ meant for it to be a date, though I suppose that's what he thought it was, or what he thought it turned in to, we _hadn't_ intended to meet up at the bar, it _certainly_ wasn't an invitation to my bedroom, it was just coffee. I _thought_ it was just coffee, anyway. I didn't want him to drive drunk. When I came downstairs the next morning, the quilt just..."

Slowly, Nick passed her tumbler of whiskey around himself and toward her hands. Brena held it, but didn't drink until she heard Nick sip at his own. "Go on, Bren. What about the quilt?"

"It made me sick. He didn't know anything about me, or Deaglan, or Hazel, or you, and what he thought he would...could...do to me on that quilt...and then what he _did_ to that quilt...I know I can sew it back together, put the batting back in, all that. It's not that it's torn, Nick. It's that _I'm_ the _reason._ "

Wrapping his arms tightly around Brena, Nick leaned forward just enough to rest his chin on the top of her shoulder and pull her over, somewhat into his lap, though he had no idea how to turn her and make the gesture seem natural and not awkwardly desperate. His thighs and her hips didn't want to work together; she was far too angular and he was far too muscular. He was going to try, though. He needed it; so did she.

"Hey, uh, Brena, can-"

Brena, constantly aware of things Nick didn't know he radiated, pushed herself back against him as hard as she could, which wasn't much considering she had little in terms of traction and body weight to work with, "Yes, mo trodaire. We'll head off to bed once the bottle's empty and the fire burns itself down. And we'll bring the quilts – the ones we don't put up, anyway. First door on the right, down the hall. Master suite. It's ours, now. And, I think they'd want it that way."


	6. Insecurities Are Your Bedfellows

Welcome Nanisgirl and Nolabell66!

Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers, and really - I promise I'm back. It's just slow going at the moment. I've got some projects in the works; anyone out there an AJ fan? Or jonesing for more Meg and Randy?

Onward!

* * *

The whiskey and the fire paced each other, so it was a few hours more before the bottle ran out and the embers died down. While their levels dropped and shifted, Nick and Brena did the same, sliding from the coffee table to their sides, curled into each other. Theirs was somnolent, slow conversation punctuated by an occasional drowsy kiss, and they were more than content with that. The fear had bled out of Nick entirely; whatever idiocy or terror had earlier prompted him to half-mangle Brena under aggressive and crushing hands was gone, replaced by a stillness of mind that he had no desire to fight. It was Brena who moved first, stumbling and thick, helping Nick to sit up and then stagger down the hall, both of them dragging heaps of quilts behind them and collapsing into what Nick swore was the softest, warmest bed he'd ever felt. Brena clicked on a wonderfully dim bedside lamp – it was just enough to keep him from getting lost on the way to the bathroom, but not enough to keep him awake.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Nick," Brena poked at him as he laid next to her in bed, sleepy and confused, "You can't sleep in that. It can't possibly be comfortable. Boxers, or whatever you've got on, is fine," Brena tugged at the beltloop of his pants, "You know I trust you. Go ahead. The lights are basically out and I'm not looking. Besides, it can't be any worse than some of those plaid pajama pants and neon shirts you slept in at Magee."

"Fair," Nick yawned, slipping his pants and shirt off, "But what about you? Jeans don't qualify as comfortable, either, and you spent way too many nights bunched up in them in that fuckin' concrete chair next to Deaglan's bed." Nick winced and regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth; he could feel the bed start to shake slightly next to him in a way that immediately made him think he'd started Brena crying.

"Oh, good grief, Nick," Brena finally laughed, "You know, you'd think for as much money as that hospital spent on things – and they did, some of the furniture in those waiting rooms and lobbies, oh it was just _ridiculous_ – they'd have found the funds for just _one_ comfortable chair!" Hooking her thumbs through her beltloops, Brena pulled her jeans down, but opted to leave her hoodie on, thinking she'd just be shivering and cold later, piles of quilts or not. Dipping her arms through her sleeves, she sat up and slipped her bra and shirt off underneath, tossing them to the side of the bed, Nick chuckling as she did – in part, out of relief that he hadn't misstepped and sent her into tears at bringing up Deaglan in such a clumsy way.

"What?" Brena looked absolutely confused; to her, taking a bra and shirt off under a hoodie was a simple task.

"I'm never gonna understand how women do that." Nick reached for her without an ounce of hesitation, pulling her toward his side and tangling her in the quilts and sheets, not feeling any resistance or tension in her as she moved. They had to adjust more than a few times to account for her sharp angles, and Nick knew he'd have to get after her about making sure she ate, but still – she fit against him, her back against his chest, as though she'd always been meant for him, and the room became quiet around them with his realization.

"This...this is nice, Bren. Just to...I dunno, just to be here."

"I meant what I said earlier, Nick."

Busy breathing in as much of her ginger and almond scent as he could, face buried in her hair, Nick had to tilt up on to his elbow, look down at her and try to recall what she said, but he'd missed it entirely. "Meant what, Brena?"

"You probably have to go in the morning, but I'll be here the next time you pass through Philadelphia. Or even just close to Philadelphia – I can always come out to see you. I don't know if that's what you meant when you asked if this was just tonight; you know how terrible I am at reading you, but I said we had more than all night. I meant that, but I'm not pushing, either. We have...whatever you want."

Brena hadn't looked up at Nick when she spoke, which was just as well; Nick didn't know what to do. It was not at all what he expected to hear. Complete freedom and boundless space for him – neither of which he really wanted to bother testing the limits of again; he'd done that in a hundred hotel rooms already and it had gone poorly in every instance – and complete commitment and patience from her, which he wasn't sure he deserved, but wanted to handle gently. It felt like everything about her, in this moment, was a gift for him, and here he'd come to her party – or at least, her bedroom – empty-handed, brought nothing of worth to give her, nothing that held the same value, other than his silence, which he now realized he'd let go on too long.

"It's fine, Nick. Don't...don't mind me, if I've over-thought it. Tonight is just tonight. And it was lovely." The hope that was in Brena's voice, the warm humor of teasing him about his pajama pants, even the drowsy satin of the whiskey and the fireplace, had turned to sudden, sodden ash. She didn't tense in his arms; instead, an odd heaviness seemed to take her over, as though a wet sand filled her body and made her into an impossible object, unwieldy and cold.

"Oh, no you don't. You said we were done circling around shit, so here goes," Nick gently pulled at Brena's shoulder until she lay flat on the bed, and he hovered over her, both too close and too far, "We _both_ suck at this. I wasn't listening – just now, _and_ when I was at Magee. I don't know how, most of the time. I've been shit at pickin' out women, and lately, been real stupid about what I brought into bed. You've been living in doctor's offices and hospital rooms for the past, what, five? Six? Years? Maybe more? And you said you didn't know anything about relationships, anyway. We worked out okay at the start because we weren't _trying_ to work out. You didn't expect anything and I was an asshole. Can we _please_ not screw this up now?"

"There's the thing, Nick," Brena whispered, "I _don't_ expect anything of you. All I know is, you asked if this was just tonight. I just wanted you to know, I'm here when...if...you're in town. _If_ you want. I can't ask anything of you. Your life is different than mine, and I understand that."

Groaning, Nick rolled off of Brena, kissing the top of her shoulder as he went. _'I don't want it to be different, Bren, but we're not_ _talking about that tonight, are we? And we're both drunk. Tired. Mostly drunk. Let's see what it feels like in the morning.'_ Brena, not to be outdone, followed right behind him, turning and curling firmly into his side, locking both her legs around one of his and laying an arm across his chest. Nick surreptitiously tried to bunch her hoodie up and out of his way so he could feel her against his skin, then chided himself – he'd managed to move far more of the fabric much further up than he thought Brena would let him get away with – and made himself stop. He knew their night wouldn't be a one-off event; he also knew tonight wouldn't be the night for anything more than sleep.

* * *

Far too quickly for his taste, sunlight began to seep in around the edges of the curtains in the master bedroom, not bothering Brena in the least, but being just bright enough to prod at the edge's of Nick's dreams and draw him back into reality. He stretched carefully under Brena, not wanting to jostle her, but she barely moved – he realized that, without Deaglan to cause her to wake at every small sound and tic, she might actually be enjoying her rest for the first time in who knew how long – and enjoying it with him. Smiling to himself, he let his eyes wander around the room; it was still clearly Hazel and Deaglan's. Their pictures together were on the dresser; he saw what he knew was Deaglan's bathrobe still hanging on the back of the bedroom door – plaid, flannel, and thick. Hazel's bathrobe hung next to it, a thinner sort of fabric printed with something small and blue that Nick couldn't quite make out. It looked dainty and he thought it would suit Brena, in the same way that Deaglan's plaid made him think of the pajama pants he'd worn at Magee and how Brena had smiled at them.

While Nick looked around the room, his fingers cautiously traced the lines of Brena's arm as it rested on his chest. As he found more details, more clues to her family life, his hand became bolder, slipping down her arm to the curve of her waist and back again, testing out her potential reaction. None came, other than the hint of a smile Nick swore he imagined rather than saw. Leaving his hand on Brena's waist, he scanned the top of the dresser, eying one photograph that showed Deaglan – or at least, who he suspected to be Deaglan when he was younger – dipping Hazel back into a kiss in front of a Christmas tree, each light showing up as a bright white dot in the black and white photograph. _'That must be from before Brena, or maybe when Brena was really young. He really loved...I mean, they...yeah. I get them.'_ Dropping his hand as low as he dared, tracing his fingers inward along the crest of her hips and then across the flat plane of her stomach, Nick looked down at the quilt. Oranges and yellows that had faded from use and time were arranged into a giant starburst, surrounded by a border of hearts, flowers, and clovers. He couldn't help but smile, and wanted to ask Brena where the quilt with the Valentine's hearts ended up, just to rib her a bit.

Ribs. Hers, as he crossed her hips and moved up across her stomach. He could count every one, bump his fingers over them slightly – not enough to give him cause for directing a lecture at her, but just enough for concern – and wondered if he could talk her into a breakfast that he knew he'd have to double-up at the gym to get rid of, but would do her some good. _'Shit. The gym. Even just some regular clothes. I don't have my shit here, it's at the hotel. Claudio will pick up my suitcases for me, but he's gonna be at the arena. Shit! What arena? We're still in the area, just not in Philly...so now I have to call him, figure out where I'm supposed to be...and say goodbye. Again.'_ Nick tried to work his way through each of his options – he knew he couldn't just skip the show; performing or not, he had to check in or risk his job. He could show up and ask for time off, which Talent Relations was likely to grant him, but he didn't want them to transmute his request into 'Early Retirement' – at least, not yet. He could ask Brena to come with him, at least locally, but worried about her watching him in-ring – they'd never had a conversation about what it looked like, _really_ looked like, to work a match. In terms of immediate concerns, Nick wanted his toothbrush so he could at least not be tremendously disgusting when Brena woke up. He also wanted Brena to stop tensing her legs around his; whatever dream she was exploring while wrapped around him was enjoyable for her and torture for him. Pleasant torture, but torture nonetheless.

 _'I know I'm not gonna sleep with her. I mean, not now. Clearly, I want to – think about_ anything _else, Nemeth, because you're not gonna sleep with Brena. Not happening. Not for a while, I was out doin' stupid shit, stupid women, I gotta talk to Meredith and figure that out. Not like I don't want to sleep with her, I mean, yeah. Obviously I'm in to her. Jesus. She's gotta stop that thing with her legs or I'm gonna die. Literally die right here and that is so not the right thing to think because of Hazel and Deaglan. Brena, seriously, you can't keep doing that. You're gonna keep doing that and God I want you, right now, so, so very right now, and I'm not going to. I want to, I want you, and we can't.'_

While thinking, his fingers continued to swirl from her hips to her ribs and back again, almost unconsciously, and Brena finally woke just enough to pull herself over Nick, pinning his hand between them, her legs still wrapped around his. She tucked her head down just enough to yawn, giving Nick just enough time to roll his eyes up to the ceiling, curse any god that was listening, and then look back down at Brena.

Following her yawn with just enough of a stretch to make Nick want to test her flexibility in ways that would have made a gymnast blink, Brena brushed a few errant strands of hair away from his face before gently kissing him. Every signal she was sending was telling him, if all they had was now, make it count – every iota of common sense he had was telling him, they had more than just now, so wait – _especially_ the waiting part. Gently, Nick rolled Brena off of him, trying to be careful of her shoulders, and her hoodie pulled up almost too far for decency given that she wasn't wearing a bra. Nick, eying her legs and marveling at both how much and how little her boyshorts managed to cover, tried to figure out how to gracefully decline what was fast becoming an invitation to spend as much of the morning as possible in bed.

"Nick, I know you have to leave," Brena whispered toward the ceiling, as if not addressing him directly would make any possible rejection that much less painful, "But I wanted – I mean, I just thought – "

"Bren, we can't." Nick hadn't meant to sound harsh, hoped he didn't sound dismissive, but knew his answer came too fast and his tone was all wrong. He hadn't considered how to give her context, and was really just hoping she'd put two and two together, realize that he didn't want to sleep with her right after having laid bare with a large enough junkie hooker population to keep both the Betty Ford center and Planned Parenthood in business for several decades, didn't want to expose her to anything without knowing what he'd exposed himself to, didn't want to disgust them both with an explanation that would absolutely kill the mood...but really, wanted desperately to lay her down in bed and not let her leave until the peacocks made sense to them both and she wouldn't sleep on the floor ever again.

Slowly, Brena pulled down the edges of her hoodie, contorting that motion into one that brought her up to sitting on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry, Nick. I shouldn't have assumed...asked..." _'Better we don't, I think. Better to not know what I'd never have again anyway.'_ She started to fish for her pants, but Nick sat up and reached for her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, trying to stop her from leaving again, even if it was something as small as leaving the room.

"No, no, _no_ , Brena, I said that all wrong-"

"You were perfectly clear, Nick," Brena worked at pushing his hands down from her wrists, where he'd pulled her arms around herself, but it was no use. Had she understood wrestling better, she'd have known she was caught in a belly to back suplex that hadn't quite happened yet, and Nick was debating the merits of simply flipping her over him and then laying on top of her until she listened to reason. His version of reason, anyway; whatever the truth was could wait til later, when he actually knew it. "I thought...and I shouldn't have thought-"

"Bren, it's because I don't know when I have to leave and you're not exactly something...someone...I want to start and finish in a hurry. Or get interrupted during." He tightened his arms around her and pulled her down into the bed, ever so glad she hadn't found her pants. "Hear me out, okay?" He wasn't ready to look at her, on the off-chance she was angry, or worse, sad, so he purposefully kept her back to him as they lay together. "Neither one of us planned on finding each other last night. We both know I have to take off today. _Yes_ , I am coming back. _No,_ this is not a one-time-thing. I know you said I can go do whatever I want, but I did that shit already. I wanted _you._ Now I want to not fuck it up."

Silence. Silence that carried on long enough to make Nick nervous; his hands finally released her wrists and began to trail up and down her arms, then across the tops of her shoulders, then finally he pulled her over onto her back. He wasn't prepared for the smile he found, but he remembered it hadn't been awkward to kiss her in the cafe when she'd been smiling, so he tried again – this time, with a smile on his face. Nick was right, this wouldn't be the time he'd sleep with her; this would instead be the time he'd start to cop a half-assed feel like some sort of awkward high school boy on a first date – a series of stilted movements that did more to tangle Brena's hoodie in the sheets than it did to take it off of her – but she was glad to help him slip it over her head. It was there that he stopped, ever so briefly, watching her hair fan out around her on her pillow like the down on a dandelion, still black as night, and just as soft as he remembered, before he settled over her again, trying to decide how to move and where to start.

* * *

They'd had time – time enough, Nick realized later, that he could have slept with her and then some, could have had her twice or three times over that morning, then managed a nap in early afternoon sunlight, followed by lunch wherever they'd wanted, and then suggested one further quick entanglement before the phone call finally came. Once he committed, though, cemented the idea in his mind that he'd only allow his hands to wander so far, to only entertain a precious few ideas of what was acceptable and lock down a much longer list of what wasn't, that he found himself with shaky breath and hazy vision, unaware that something so simple could be so thoroughly disarming, completely arousing, and yet still sweetly innocent. He hadn't expected Brena to be so calm about being in bed with him – not that he expected panic, or the kind of irritating, giggly enthusiasm most women showed – but she was simply unselfconscious and present in the moment, moving with him in a synchronicity that was in turns easy and disarming. The women Nick had been with, drug-sick dalliances excluded, had been either frantic motion, all tittering and ogling and energy that bordered on silliness, or worse, competitive and demanding, either because of their position on the roster or their influence in the media – but this, this was quiet acceptance of skin and friction.

* * *

When the call did come, hours later, Claudio delicately asking if everything was well, Nick just laughed and asked for a ride, carefully reading Brena's address from a small, thick card of stationery. She'd pulled it from a drawer in the bedside table at some point during the afternoon, along with a pen, her handwriting careful and precise. Nick didn't want to think about the inevitable – that he would have to leave, and soon – but that card meant he had a way back to her, a way to hear her voice, and he handled it gently, trying to decide the best way to fold it to fit it in his wallet.

"You are sure things are...settled?" Had Claudio's tone been any more cautious, he wouldn't have been able to ask.

"C, man...just c'mon and get me. It's good. Everything's good, now."

"As you wish. I have your suitcases; is it possible that your quilt can be...rather, I mean to say that, were you able to ask if Brena could...that is, I am not trying to-"

"Hang on, lemme ask her." Shuffling his phone from one hand to the other and then losing it entirely in the sheets, Nick pulled Brena on top of him. He didn't _want_ to bring up the quilt again; his night and morning had been too perfect, but Brena caught him before he could fall over his own lack of nerve.

"Just leave the peacocks here when Claudio stops by, Nick. I'll stitch it. Take this one, instead," Brena gestured to the quilt with the starburst that they'd slept under, rolled through, wrapped around themselves, and generally tunneled through, "The next time we see each other, I'll have the other one back together." She smiled, and then added, "Oh – and ask Claudio _how_ he knew he _ought_ to ask about getting the quilt fixed. Something tells me Meredith's _right_ behind him."

A string of tinny profanity in the Key Of Meredith helped Nick locate his phone in the bed; Claudio stammered out that he'd be over in 20 minutes before ending the call. It took only one glance between Nick and Brena before they were both laughing so hard they were in tears, Nick's arms wrapped completely around her, but this time with the knowledge that when he let go, it wouldn't hurt so damned much. Or for so long.


	7. Well, It Was Gross

Thank you to EVERYONE who read and reviewed! Thank you to all of my silent readers, lurkers, followers, critics, friends, and even that one putz who's just too stubborn to take good advice.

Really, take the advice.

Onward!

* * *

Claudio moved to knock on Brena's door, then looked down at Meredith, who looked up at him and shrugged.

"We're busted anyway. It doesn't matter," Meredith wrapped one arm around Claudio and raised the other, lifting the heavy brass knocker on Brena's door and letting it drop, "And after all the shit Blondie put you through? He fuckin' owes you. He better not say _one_ word about this. It's not _your_ fault that you knew how to open your mouth and ask for what you wanted." Despite Meredith's knocking, it didn't sound as though Nick or Brena were coming to the door.

"Yes, platzchen, but in some things it is not so simple," Claudio lifted the door knocker again and rapped it firmly, this time hearing footfalls inside the brownstone, "Nick, he has the head of a bull."

"Yeah," Meredith purred, "And when it comes to anatomy, _you_ have-"

"Don't finish that thought, Meredith," Nick said as he flung the door open, "I hafta ride with the guy, and I don't need to know _that_ much about him." Winking and grabbing her arm, he dragged her forward into an awkward but enthusiastic hug, passing her off to Brena behind him and then turning to Claudio, looking every bit like a chagrined schoolboy as Claudio walked past him into the brownstone.

"Listen, C, I fucked up. I was doin' so much shit that I-"

"Yes, and you are _done_ with those things now, are you not?" He spoke quietly as he looked past Nick at Brena, who Meredith had pulled over to the sofa and was now sitting with her, knee-to-knee, clutching her hands and trying to wheedle gossip and details out even though it was likely an impossible endeavor.

"Trust me, I am," Nick followed Claudio's gaze over to Brena, who looked ridiculously happy, and was most assuredly blushing, "I owe you both for making me pull my head out of my ass...for putting us in each other's way. But...I need one other thing. Meredith's phone number."

Claudio startled, then gestured at the solitary suitcase he'd pulled in with him. "Meredith and I will wait in the hall while you...explain...the quilt to Brena. And then you will explain this telephone request to me, because I am not sure if I should be comfortable with it. You are thinking...something. And it is _not_ good."

Looking taken aback, but understanding Claudio's hesitation, Nick nodded as he lifted the suitcase. "Look...once I explain why I need it...well, you're gonna be pissed off. At first, anyway. But then I think you're gonna understand."

Meredith glanced over her shoulder just long enough to catch Claudio's eye; they both made their way out to the hall for what they expected would be a lengthy wait while Nick stumbled through an explanation of what had happened to the quilt Brena had entrusted to Nick.

* * *

"Here, Bren," Nick knelt to unzip the suitcase, Brena nearly instantly at his side, "I was just leaving it in here, I didn't know what was gonna make it worse, and...I can't really tell how bad it is, either."

Gently lifting out the quilt and spreading it on the floor, Brena couldn't help but laugh and shove an already off-balance Nick completely over to the ground. "You're silly, mo trodaire. This? This is nothing. It ripped on the thread. I'll take out the pieces of fabric that have the stitching torn off, and put new pieces in. Well, maybe more than one. Hazel always saved the scraps, so if anything's too small or off-sized, I'll just change the other side to match. Symmetry."

"You're...like...really okay with that?" Nick still didn't sound sure about it – didn't sound like he'd ever be sure about it, and Brena felt she had to put her foot down about the issue before he tied the quilt into a noose for himself.

"Look," Brena balled up the quilt in her arms and tossed it onto the coffee table, gesturing for Nick to follow her down the hall toward yet another bedroom, "Look in here. Hazel had _dozens_ of projects she never finished, Nick. Quilts I'll never understand the patterns to, more fabric than I'll ever do anything with, things she started when she was out of her mind on medication. Half these things weren't ever really _meant_ to be quilts, or pot-holders, or even so much as a pillow case," Brena held up one particularly lopsided and mismatched chain of fabric that was frayed, curled in on itself, and made no sense whatsoever. "And the yarn – Nick, look," She gestured toward a towering shelf stacked with skein after skein of colors and textures and weights that Nick didn't know how he'd missed last night – he was almost sure she'd walked him through the room – but knew he had overlooked. "Really, look. It's like a rainbow in here. Things I'll never get to, things she never got to. Hazel would take one look at that quilt, and laugh that you're worried about one slip of fabric that's got to come out. Look at how much fabric never went _in._ " Holding him by the shoulders, she pulled herself up to kiss him, hoping he understood. "Let me have something to do, Nick." Her smile was thin, but her grip around his hand felt sure as she led him back toward the front door, stopping long enough in their bedroom to fold the starburst quilt and carry it with her to his suitcase.

 _'And holy shit, it's our bedroom. Ours, like, me and her. Us. I thought it, and she even said it. Last night, she said it. She said Hazel and Deaglan would be okay with that, and I'm okay with that, and I really_ want _that. Now I just have to not fuck it up. Claudio's just gotta help me out one last time, because Corporate will absolutely fuck it up if I have to go to them. And my suitcase smells like Christmas and we didn't talk about a single fuckin' thing that's important, last night, not the way shit's important to her. I'm gonna call her. No! No I'm not. I'm gonna do what her ol' man woulda done. Phone's nice and shit, and I'm gonna do that, but I can do better than that, too.'_

"Everything okay, Nick? You look a bit lost, and Claudio's going to be wondering if something's happened," Brena touched his arm, gently – almost fearfully – and Nick knew he'd blanked out a bit too long.

"Yeah. No. I don't wanna leave, Bren."

"And I don't want you to go, mo trodaire. It's an unfairness, but in a way it's a gift. We've got something to look forward to, if you want."

"Stop with that. I _told_ you what I want," The edge in Nick's voice was absolute concrete, and Brena dropped her gaze to the floor. Nick, knowing he'd managed to come across as an irritable jackass for the umpteenth time during their short visit, gritted his teeth and tried again, "Whoever hit me with that door did a hell of a job. Brena, I mean...seriously. I wanted to find a way to tell you all this at Magee, and I didn't, and then I left, and...then I spiraled. I'm gonna guess things weren't so hot for you, either," Brena sighed, but shook her head, "Okay. So if this is what we both want – and I'm telling you, _this_ is what I _really do_ want – don't go saying it's not, okay? I manage to not have a filter for everything else, so I'm pretty sure if I wasn't happy I'd just say, 'This sucks, I'm out.'" He punctuated his last few words with some dramatic eye rolling and hair flipping, just to make sure she knew he was teasing, but her smile gave her away.

"True, Nick. But...as you said, I've been fairly locked away from the world, and as I've said, I don't know what I'm doing. I don't have my feet under me, and something tells me you're able to settle to ups and downs better than I can."

"Watch how fast I settle down with you, Brena." Out of his mouth before he knew what he'd said, Nick's words startled them both into thoughtful silence, broken only when Claudio tapped at the door. Not knowing what else to do, or to say, Nick gently kissed Brena goodbye, let his fingers trail through her hair one last time, and then took himself and his suitcase through the door, both men nearly being shoved down the stairs by Meredith, who was only too eager to get inside and start picking away at Brena again for details.

* * *

"Spill it! I'm getting whiskey, you're getting drunk, and we're swapping stories! And you better tell me what end of the sofa not to sit on!" Meredith was banging around the kitchen, looking for ice, tumblers, and anything with an alcohol content, but only managed a bottle of white wine. "Nevermind, we're going Chardonnay. Figures, you two probably cleaned out the whiskey anyway."

Brena smiled and shook her head, catching the corkscrew Meredith lobbed at her from the kitchen. "It wasn't like that, Mer, and you can sit on whatever furniture you want. Nothing happened. Nothing like that, anyway. I propositioned him, he turned me down. Hand to a Bible, he didn't sleep with me."

"You're kidding," Meredith froze coming around the end of the kitchen counter, "I mean, what, you weren't in granny panties and a ratty bra, were you?"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Meredith!" Brena gestured for a wine glass; while Meredith was willing to drink from the bottle, Brena wasn't quite so eager to give up on basic decency, "One, the panties I was in were fine – I've worn them a million times – and two,"

"Oh, so they _were_ granny panties." Meredith plopped heavily onto the sofa and passed Brena's over-full wine glass across to her; she then thumped the bottle heavily down onto the coffee table after drinking directly from it.

"They were boy shorts, you horrible woman. And two, I wasn't wearing a bra. Why am I even telling you this? Don't you have enough on your plate with Claudio? And why on earth didn't you tell me?" At that, Brena leaned in, looking a bit glum, "I...honestly, Meredith. If you know him well enough to plan out running me into Nick and then disappearing for the night, you know him _quite_ well. I take it that it's been going on for a while?"

"Oh, fuck Bren, I don't know," Meredith drank, not knowing what to do, "Claudio wasn't intentional, he was just – I mean, I thought I was a pity-fuck because he was always around Blondie, and Blondie had a thing for you, and then it kinda ended up that he...enjoyed my company? I don't know. He actually liked being around me. I liked being around him. First time in a long time I didn't feel like I had to hold my tongue and not cuss, or suck my stomach in and paint my nails, or make sure I ordered the salad for dinner. We went out to eat the first time he really had a night here, and he got on my ass about _not_ getting dessert. He called the waiter back to the table and made him _wait there_ while I picked something out."

"He paid attention to you, then," Brena mused, swirling her wine, "All those times at the hospital. You and the pastries. Or cake, whichever."

"Claudio's been there for me, Brena. The shit I couldn't – wouldn't – lay on you, because it wasn't right or fair, I could lay on him. And before you say there isn't anything I couldn't lay on you, shut up. There's things you laid on Nick that you wouldn't lay on me, because it's just _different_. Not good, bad, or wrong – just different."

"I'm excited for you, Mer. But _next_ time," Brena kicked Meredith soundly in the shin, "You _tell_ me, you little git! I wanted something to be happy about after Deaglan, and I could have been happy for you!"

Rubbing her shin, Meredith glared upward, knowing she couldn't hold the expression for long. "You know what? I don't want there to be a next time. I just want him."

* * *

"You must explain this to me again, Nick. I do not understand why Meredith must take your pants off, and why you must call her personally to request this." Claudio was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were past white and had turned grey, and Nick was considering asking him to pull over before he re-explained the situation. For the sixth time.

It hadn't been easy the first time. Or the second. Or any of the times that followed. Claudio knew Nick had been fucking around – and fucking around to an epic degree – with anyone who smiled, nodded, and laid down, with the sole requirement being, 'Does this woman bear a vague resemblance in some way to Brena, if I'm drunk and squinting?' He hadn't been trading names, numbers, or backgrounds with the people he was bringing to his hotel rooms, and also hadn't bothered with condoms. A quick, "You on the pill? Good," had been enough for him, and so far, a lack of paternity suits had been enough to assuage his nerves. He hadn't found Brena, so he hadn't cared.

Until he found Brena, of course, and then the very real possibility that the heroin-shooting, coke-snorting, meth-using, alcohol addicted, generally undesirable females Nick had been banging had likely also been sharing needles, having unprotected sex of their own with other johns, and had little to no access to anything that even vaguely resembled health care. Hepatitis wasn't high on his list of priorities and HIV hadn't ever been a life goal, but he had money. There weren't cures, but there were pills. No, it was having the, "Hi, honey, dinner smells great, by the way I have a fatal disease," conversation with Brena that Nick was trying to mentally run from. He knew he needed to get tested for everything he could think of and a few things he probably didn't know existed, but the question then became, how could he do that quietly? Nick couldn't walk into a clinic; cameras and fans were everywhere. Going through corporate medical would raise more questions than he was prepared to deal with; he knew he might have to have a conversation anyway, based on what the test results showed, but he could deal with that eventuality when or if it became a reality. Then, it hit him. Meredith.

The one woman most likely to murder Nick and not get caught doing it was also the one woman most likely to actually go along with his plan to get blood work done and not make a fuss over it, especially because it was to protect her friend. Ideally, it'd be one needle and a quick trip to the bathroom for a urine sample, but then again – it _was_ Meredith. It was entirely possible she'd make him suffer for his ways, even if his ways resulted in nothing more than epic guilt and a lifetime spent saying Hail Marys on Hazel's rosary.

* * *

It ended up that Nick did ask Claudio to pull over; he'd started to swerve too much for Nick to get through his explanation. Unbuckling once they came to rest on the shoulder, as much for comfort as for the very real possibility that he'd have to run like hell, Nick turned in his seat and started again.

"Okay. Listen. We have time before we've gotta be at the arena. I'm gonna try to say it without sayin' anything stupid-"

"Then, my friend, this is an impossible endeavor and we may as well drive," Claudio was unimpressed, and Nick was beginning to wonder if he was intentionally looking for a reason not to give him Meredith's phone number – and why.

"C, man, don't be like that. Let me try. Last time, honest, and if you still don't want to, I'll leave the whole subject alone." _'Except for the part where I try to wheedle Meredith's number out of Brena.'_ Clearing his throat, Nick tried one last time. "You know what I was doing when I thought I lost Brena. I was stupid. I was drunk all the time, I was bringing random women back to my room, and I wasn't always smart about how I slept with them."

"You have confused me already. You knew sleeping with any of these women was not smart no matter how you...attempted it. What could you have done to make it even _less_ intelligent? And what does any of this have to do with my platzchen?"

"Your _what_?" Nick shook his head. "Claudio, man...you're gonna make me spell it out, aren't you?"

"No, I do not need you to _spell_ things, I need you to stop being so damned _American_ , and speak in words that make sense! Not everything needs an expression to be expressed!" Frustrated, Claudio turned the car on, and Nick reached over and turned the car off, snatching the keys out of the ignition.

"I was fuckin' them, but I wasn't...I mean..." Rubbing his hands over his face, Nick marveled at how hard it was to say, 'But I didn't wear a condom. Like, ever,' to his friend. "Okay, you and Meredith, you two sleep together, right?"

Silence. Silence, and a look that would have killed anyone other than Nick, who had received so many dirty looks in the course of his life he'd all but grown immune to them. "Okay! Okay. I'll just assume for sake of argument that you do. And when you did, the first time, I'm going to assume that one of you – maybe both of you, she's a nurse – were smart, and said, 'Hey, I know you're probably on birth control, and neither one of us has a disease, but here's a cond-"

"Mein Gott, Nick, you are saying you were simply... _with_ these women? Just like that, just there, with nothing? Sex?"

"Well...yeah. Yeah, that's what I'm saying." The dashboard was suddenly exceedingly interesting, and Nick couldn't look at Claudio, couldn't even look out the windows of the car, because there were people driving by, and people could look at him. And looking meant possibly judging. Or knowing. Somehow.

"And you have done the same with Brena, you fool?" Now there was tension in Claudio's voice, something hot and craggy that wasn't there when Nick ruining only his own life.

"No, that's what I'm saying! I told her I _couldn't_ sleep with her. She tried it – she propositioned me, I turned her down. It _killed_ me, man, she looked like I fuckin' shot her cat. But...I can't do that to her. I want to call Meredith _privately_ , not on a hospital line, so nobody knows, and ask her if she'd, like...check me."

"Check you? For what, Nick, a brain?" Claudio snatched the keys out of Nick's hand, started the car, and pulled roughly into traffic, before throwing his phone into Nick's lap. "You may call her – and you _will_ keep the call on speaker."

* * *

Much later that night – well after the show – with Nick in the shower and Claudio stretched across his hotel bed, he called Meredith, wanting to find out how her day with Brena had gone, and what she actually thought about Nick's request. She'd been oddly silent on the phone when he called her from the road, and Claudio couldn't quite figure it out. He'd expected her to castigate him, to break him into jagged pieces and then arrange them into a sculpture so ugly he'd be unrecognizable as anything but the selfish asshole he was. But, nothing happened. Instead, Meredith only said she'd see what she could do and get back with him through Claudio, before hanging up.

"My schnitzel! Come, tell me what it is that is weighing on you. You did not sound yourself earlier. Is it Brena, or is it Nick?"

"Oh, it's _your_ dumbass friend, not mine. Brena's never _been_ so happy, and you know what? If he's got something I can't cure with an antibiotic and a stiff punch to the jaw..." Meredith trailed off, her voice hitching. "Brena drank an _entire_ bottle of Chardonnay and was all fits of giggles. She took _me_ out to lunch, _actually_ ate, cleaned up around the brownstone, and told me how _amazing_ she feels. What a _gentleman_ Nick is, how much she knows he _cares_ about her, that he didn't treat her like she'd be a one-time-pass for him, and she really _believes_ him when he says he wants to be with her."

"Well," Claudio mused, "There, mein zuckerstange, I do believe him. He talks about her like no other woman he has ever..." There, Claudio stopped. "Honestly, platzchen, like no other woman." He chuckled. "It must be something about your state, my dear."

Meredith snorted, but continued. "Maybe, C, but it's got me on edge. Think about it. Brena's sitting there talking about how she finally feels _alive_ again, feels like she's got something to look _forward_ to. Claudio, tell me what the fuck I'm supposed to say to her if his tests say he's got hepatitis? HIV? You heard what he said he was doing. It'd be one thing if he was fucking a couple women with coke habits, but he was talking about women with track marks. Meth, heroin, shared needles, unprotected sex in _every_ possible orifice. Body part. Whatever. You don't tell a john, "No, not there, not tonight, I'm sore," you just take it. These were _not_ smart women, and he was _not_ smart taking them up to his room."

"I know, my love, I know. And I do not know what to do about it. He is scared. Nick has been quiet tonight. It is not like him. The gravity of the situation, it has settled in. He does not know what to tell Brena, if there is something to tell her."

"If there's not, he better buy a lottery ticket." Meredith shook her head. "I looked at your travel schedule; you're still in Pennsylvania now, then it's out to New York, then you cut back across Pennsylvania to get to Ohio. You're gonna look all kinds of stupid for taking a flight like this, but if you take a layover _in_ Philly from New York, instead of direct, you can go from Philly to whatever it is in Ohio. Columbus? That sounds right."

"Yes, and complicated. When we lay over in Philadelphia, I assume we are to meet you at the clinic?"

"Midnight shift; you can take my employee pass and park in the lockdown section of the garage. Nobody will see – wait – we? _You_ need something, too?"

"I need to make sure you do not strangle him, platzchen. That will be my pleasure, if it comes to it."

* * *

That was how, a few days later, Nick found himself wrapped in a stiff paper gown, sitting on an exam table in one of Magee's basement lab rooms and fidgeting nervously, Claudio leaning against a counter next to a leaking sink and glaring at him, arms folded across his chest.

"She's...like...really coming, right? I mean she was down here to set up the room, obviously. But she's not back. I mean, she said eleven and it's already twenty after and-"

"And I can hear you bitching through the door, so lower your voice," Meredith hissed as she slid into the room, opening the door no more than was necessary, "It's a _little_ hard to go on my break early and collect lab supplies _instead_ of getting my usual coffee, and _then_ go on lunch in the _basement_ without getting any actual _food,_ and not have anyone notice. So quit your whining, this isn't my idea of a good time. Drop your pants."

Sighing, then shivering, Nick shifted uncomfortably and half-glanced at Claudio. "Mer...I'm not _wearing_ pants. Isn't there a bathroom?"

"Why do you need a bathroom when you're getting a swab test? No pants makes this even easier." Meredith rearranged her supplies on the cart, scrubbed her hands at the sink, snapped on a pair of obnoxiously-cheerful purple gloves, and then pulled the single longest cotton-tipped swab Nick had ever seen out of a crisp plastic packet. "Claudio, my dear, you might not want to watch. It's...scratchy." Marching toward Nick with the swab held up in the air like a sword, Meredith stretched her hand out and aimed _much_ lower than Nick was comfortable with, and he found himself reflexively backpedaling up the table.

"Whoa, wait, hang on, what are you-"

Claudio outright laughed as Nick punched the table when Meredith swabbed – and swabbed was being generous, it looked more like she was trying to strangle his penis while simultaneously boring an additional hole in it. She reached around herself for the sterile sample bag, dropping the swab inside and then slipping a pink lab requisition form into its outer pocket. Nick's hands had flown to his crotch almost as fast as Meredith's had left it, and she could only chuckle as she walked away.

"No offense, but you're officially – for the purpose of the tests, anyway – a guy in his 80's. And you'd better be ready to pay cash, this can't go through his insurance. His wife would have a fit. I just had to put a name on it that wasn't yours." Meredith hip-bumped Claudio at the sink, who was still snickering, and began to scrub her hands.

"Jesus. _Christ_ ," Nick gritted out, "Are we _done_ here, Meredith?" Positive he'd be pissing blood for weeks and unsure he'd be able to take a bump without shrieking and trying to run away from his own genitalia, Nick was more than ready to head back to the car.

"Oh no, Romeo, that was only half of the testing," Meredith's voice, sing-song and sadistic, raised the hairs on Nick's arms. "Whip it out again. Do you have _any_ idea how vascularized the penis is? It's not like it just stands up on its own." Reaching over to her tray of supplies, Meredith ran her hand gently, almost lovingly, over a syringe with a ten-gauge hypodermic needle attached to it. "Doesn't matter to me if your little man is at attention or not, I just need you to hold _very_ still. You _don't_ want me to miss."

For the second time that night, Nick started to backpedal up the table; even Claudio left his position against the sink and approached Meredith, blocking her in before she could reach Nick, highly concerned about her ideas on how to collect the blood sample.

"Schnitzel, is it not possible that this...method...may cause him harm?" Claudio cringed on the last word; as much as he was ready to tie Nick in a knot below the belt, he also didn't want him to bleed out from Meredith's attempts at medical practice. Or phlebotomy. Or revenge.

"Only if he moves too much, C. Like I said, if you don't wanna watch, you don't have to." Meredith pointed sharply at the door, and Claudio took her up on the implied offer, not bothering to make eye contact with Nick while rushing out.

"Okay, Blondie. Pull it out. Let's go. My lunch break is half over and I don't wanna be rushed. Shit, _you_ don't want me to be rushed." Snapping on a new set of gloves, Meredith picked up the syringe in earnest and walked up to Nick. "Honestly, if I could find a _bigger_ needle, I'd use it. Do you know what it's gonna do to her if your test results are dirty? And I don't mean shit that there's antibiotics for, Nick, I mean shit that's gonna kill you. You think she wants to watch someone else that she loves die a slow, miserable, painful death?"

Nick dropped his chin to his chest, and slowly slid forward, out of the corner and toward the edge of the table. "No, Mer. Trust me, I know she doesn't want that," Grimacing, he lifted up the front edge of the paper gown, and looked away. "Just...don't miss, okay? Do whatever." _'Jesus Christ, the shit I go through. No, the shit I put myself through, being a fucking idiot. But I don't wanna put Brena through anything, either. She doesn't deserve that, andthis is gonna suck shit. Meredith, please, please don't miss. Please?'_

Half a smile crossed Meredith's face, and she put the syringe back on the tray, reaching instead for a much smaller, standard sized hypodermic needle attached to a different syringe. "Nah, Blondie. Drop it, and stick your leg out."

"You...you're fuckin' with me?"

"Honestly, no. If you were gonna argue this shit with me, I was gonna put that needle right through your dick, and a ten gauge isn't exactly small. But...the fact you were gonna let me do it...you do care about her. The results aren't just for you, or you woulda fought me on it."

The nausea was crippling; it was part from the relief that he didn't have to have a giant needle driven through him – the needle into his ankle was bad enough, felt strange and unexpected, but Meredith explained there weren't many other places she could put it that wouldn't show on camera, given his ring attire – and part from the understanding that he'd have to wait weeks for his test results to come in. And in that time, he'd have to maintain a facade of complete normalcy – or at least, of completely-normal-for-Nick – every time he talked to Brena. Balling up in Claudio's passenger seat as they sped off toward the airport, he sent a text to Brena, hoping he wouldn't wake her, followed by one to Meredith. Both were the same, but meant completely different things: _Thank you._


	8. Tactile

To all who lurk, read, review, or hold my hand while I write, thank you.

To whose I owe reviews, they're coming. I'm in graduate classes this summer, and they're somewhere between time-consuming and hellish.

To those who are wondering if they EVER...yeah, they do. ;)

Onward!

* * *

Anxiety was a close cousin of mania, Nick found. Or at least, in his case it was, and so he wrote letters compulsively to Brena. He felt like it was the sort of thing Deaglan would have done for Hazel if they'd been separated for any length of time, and he surprised himself by never running out of things to write about. He started to notice things about the arenas, things he thought she'd like to know – how the lights were set up, what the crowds sounded like, if there were any witty signs, or anything interesting in the landscaping and flowers outside the buildings. Usually, the berms and planters were all professionally done up, but every once in a while, he'd find something determined and scraggly growing in a display and try to describe it to her.

When Nick had time, he tried to poke around the neighborhoods near the hotels a bit, do things that he thought Brena would like to do with him – nudge through old bookstores, go with Claudio to get coffee instead of drinks, just try to slow himself down a bit. He didn't mind it; in some ways he even enjoyed it. It made the nights that he did shuffle down to the hotel bar, or get dragged out to a club, actually enjoyable. It was easier to stop at one drink, say no to the women who approached him, and just sit and people-watch from a VIP section instead. He wrote to Brena about those nights, telling her he wondered what it would be like if she went with him, if she'd order a Manhattan (and if a club bartender would know how to make one) or if she'd get something fancy and fruity instead. He wrote that he remembered the skirt she wore when she went out with Meredith and how he'd love to see her in a dress, even to take her out to buy one, if she wanted, and maybe it could be something that would match the blue tint that always seemed to follow her hair when the light hit it just the right way. Nick was always sure to mention he'd gone out and come back alone, or with a group of friends, and that he wished she was there to dance with him. His letters ended by saying he wished she was under their quilt with him, too, that he could smell her ginger but it didn't quite feel like home without her. It wasn't that Nick didn't call her; he did, and regularly at that – he just felt the letters were personal, tangible things Brena could hold on to, things that made him real.

Claudio thought it was good that Nick wrote as often as he did; it kept him out of trouble and kept his mind off his test results, which were still pending. Meredith had called to say the swab had come back clean, which was good – no chlamydia, no gonorrhea – but his HIV and hepatitis hadn't come back yet, for whatever reason. Slow lab, Meredith said, though Nick was beginning to wonder if she was sitting on his results. He was planning on asking for a week off, just to see Brena, but wanted to do so with the ability to make up for what he'd declined their first night together. Having to turn her down once was plausible because they both knew he'd have to leave; having to turn her down while on vacation would make no sense. Nick knew he'd have to have a serious conversation with her, regardless of what his test results were – he had no idea if she was on any sort of birth control – and he also knew he was more than ready to spend a week in bed with her, running up a ludicrous bill for carryout and not putting on anything more than towels after showers.

* * *

"Meredith, he wrote to say he's going to try to take vacation! How wonderful is that?" Brena was waving Nick's letter in one hand and its envelope in the other, garnering quite a bit of attention at the nurse's station. She'd stopped by with lunch for Meredith, knowing she'd be too busy to go out and get anything for herself, and had waited to open her mail til she got to the desk. Shuffling past the flyers and ads, she pounced on Nick's letter like a cat on a mouse.

"Er, yeah. That'll be great, Bren." Meredith couldn't help but be flat; she finally had Nick's test results in, but hadn't opened them. One, Nick hadn't given her permission for this particular set, and two, she was in no hurry to find out what was in the envelope. When the swab results had come in, she'd called Nick immediately, knowing that whatever was in there was curable. Fixable. Something that, with a bottle of pills and a long lecture, could be remedied. This envelope, however, was a bit heavier – in consequence and in paperwork.

"Oh, Mer, I'm sorry. You must miss Claudio so much and here I am babbling like an idiot about Nick. I'm being rude. Really, I apologize." Brena's face fell, and she was quick to stuff the envelope into her purse. She reached for Meredith's hands, trying to save the moment. "I know! I'll take you out for drinks after work, how's that? Our usual pub, I'll even spring for billiards? It'll give us something to do."

"Of course, Bren. And don't worry about Switzy. I'm sure he's organizin' some chocolate-fondue-surprise of his own." Meredith winked, and dug into her shepherd's pie. "Scoot, now. I'll drop by once I'm out of scrubs."

With a lightness to her step, and one hand in her purse – Meredith knew she was clutching Nick's letter – Brena smiled, waved goodbye, and saw herself out of Magee, headed back to the brownstone to pick an outfit for the evening. She'd lately taken to writing back to Nick, though it was in a notebook; she'd had no idea where to send letters in response, and realized he'd never told her where he lived. _'Ah well. Maybe it's one of those things we'll talk about when he's here on vacation. He probably doesn't stay anywhere in particular, given how much he travels. That must be it.'_

Pursing her lips, Meredith reached for her cell phone, punching up Claudio's number. It rang just long enough that she was beginning to think he wouldn't answer, but he caught it just before it went to voicemail. Taking a deep breath, she cut him off before he could even say hello.

"If Nick's around and you're in a place you can talk, put him on the phone. Paperwork's in."

* * *

It wasn't how Nick wanted to get his results; it wasn't a position Nick wanted to be in, in the first place, but indiscriminate fucking leads to definitive consequences, as he was finding out. Or rather, as he was about to find out, having just given Meredith permission to crack the seal on the envelope and read his results.

"Ready?"

"Fuck no I'm not ready, Meredith. You think I wanna hear I probably fucked myself up for life? That I probably have some shit that's gonna kill me? You think I wanna know I'm gonna be walking around with lifelong proof of what a fucking idiot I was? I mean, fuck, grand irony is I'm in a goddamned _hotel room_ and I'm gonna listen to you tell me what a dumbfuck I am for all the shit I pulled _in_ hotel rooms. Shit, how am I gonna explain this to Brena? What the fuck am I gonna tell her? I mean, how do you explain this to someone? Like, sorry your mom and dad died, but guess what, I get to be funeral number three? Jesus Christ, what was I thinking? What was I _doing_ , I mean, fuck, it's not like I was _thinking_ , we _know_ what I was do-"

"You're clean, can you shut the fuck up now?" Meredith, acidic and terse, cut in directly over him, as she'd been skimming his results while he'd been ranting and raving, "And you owe me a check for $948; I told you this shit had to be paid in cash, so I covered it for you. Go book your vacation and give the money to Claudio." Cutting the call off, Meredith cradled her head in her hands. "And, go buy a fuckin' lotto ticket, you idiot," she whispered to herself, "I will _never_ understand how you dodged this."

Nick couldn't help it, Claudio was the closest person to him – in physical proximity, anyway – and was thus tackled to the ground in what was meant to be a celebratory hug but ended up being a bad case of rug burn and a near-miss of slamming his head into the bedframe.

"I take it your news was good, my friend?"

Pinning Claudio by the shoulders, roaring with laughter to the point his eyes were watering – though that may have also been with relief, Nick couldn't quite tell, it was all he could do to choke out, "I'm an idiot, and I'm an asshole, but fuck me, I'm clean."

"Nick, I think it is the fucking that was the problem."

Laughing again, Nick rolled off Claudio onto the hotel room floor, trying desperately to catch his breath while reaching up to grope for his phone on the bed. He nearly dropped it on his face, but managed to punch up the number for Talent Relations, and tried to, as calmly as possible, request the next available week off for personal time. Whatever paper-pusher Nick reached tried to brush him off, saying the schedule couldn't be moved, so Nick played his trump card. Sighing heavily, he put a quiver in his voice, and explained he needed the time to check in with Magee; he wanted to be sure he was on the right track with his concussion treatment as he'd started having headaches again. _'Gotcha. One quick stop-in with Dr. Morgan, where he says nothing, does nothing, and changes nothing, and then I'm free to do what I want. And you can't tell me no, Corporate Concussion Campaigners!'_ At the mention of headaches and concussions, Claudio punched him solidly in the arm, but smiled knowingly, and Nick could hear pages in a day planner being flipped rapidly. Unsurprisingly, the scheduler hurriedly said that a block of time suddenly appeared to be free, and if Nick could just make it through the next three weeks with a reduced workload – more media, less mat-impact – he'd be free to take ten days, not just seven. Agreeing readily, Nick ended the call and sat down at the table, writing to tell Brena that 'trying' to get time off had now become actually having time off, and they had so, so, much to talk about when he got there, and he hoped she'd want to go out and dance. Just once, maybe. He really wanted to buy her a dress, if she'd let him.

* * *

Dinner was wonderful – Brena could bake but wasn't much of a cook, Nick had figured that out early on, when she'd continued to take Deaglan out to restaurants and only ever brought in cakes and things from home – so he'd picked something small, out of the way, and Mediterranean for dinner, immediately following his flight. The restaurant was far from Brena's neighborhood and price range, and while the former was intentional, the latter was not so much, and he hoped she wouldn't be offended. He'd texted her a link to the restaurant's menu and website the day before he flew in, which was followed a few minutes later by a text from Meredith that read, 'What did you do that she actually _wants_ to go shopping?' Nick hadn't considered Brena might not have owned anything to wear to a 'nice' dinner, but that was something to talk about later. Right now, he hoped she and Meredith were having fun with it.

Brena's shoes didn't look impossible, so Nick suggested a walk along the river after dinner, and managed to luck his way into finding a shop that specialized in wine and aged spirits. He was positive Brena knew about the place already, but was kind enough to look surprised and charmed when he suggested they go in and pick out something to drink later that night. They caught a cab back to her brownstone, and Brena tossed her keys to Nick almost casually, letting him open the door and go in ahead of her.

Fetching glasses would only take a minute, Nick figured, and he tried to rush to turn the locks while Brena headed into the kitchen. He wanted to get the door shut and then stop her before she got any ideas on going into the parlor, but his hands wouldn't cooperate. His fingers tripped over each other, the locks seemed stiff and unwieldy, the chain tangled around itself, and all he could do was sigh and rest his head against the door, knowing that it would be up to Brena to come and save him from himself – without having any idea what his problem could be this time.

The heels of her shoes ticked away down the hall, and he heard the high-pitched song of the glasses coming to rest on the bedside tables in their room, followed by the heavy thump of the bottle. Brena followed by doing what Nick assumed was kicking off her shoes; her feet sounded lighter as she padded up the hall behind him, and her hands slipped around him to finish the fumbling job he'd started on the locks, followed by loosening his tie and dropping his cufflinks into his suit jacket pockets.

"Come with me, mo trodaire?"

Nick prayed for steadier hands in their bedroom, and let Brena lead him down the hall, part by the sleeve and part with a smile. She seemed confident, much more so than Nick would have expected, and he tried to calm himself with that knowledge as she shut the bedroom door behind them both, turning the lock there as well. _'Brena wouldn't be here – in the bedroom, I mean – if she didn't want to be. With me. And just because we're here doesn't mean we're gonna do anyth-'_

"Settle in, Nick," Brena's eyes looked glazed; it might have been the multiple glasses of wine at dinner, it might have been anticipation, "As I said last time, I'd like to." She guided him back toward the bed, and while he did manage to sit, he knew he looked up at her stupidly, landed too hard on the edge of the bed, was made up of a hundred uncoordinated motions that made no sense together – his hands were suddenly the least of his problems.

"Like...like to...uh...what?" Nick worked feverishly at toeing his shoes from his feet; he figured they were a safer bet than buttons and Brena might be a better choice to handle those and his suit jacket. It was bad enough his throat had suddenly seemed to catch on itself; he couldn't for the life of him figure out why his voice had picked _now_ to go up several octaves.

"Everything, mo trodaire." Brena settled over Nick's lap before pushing him back onto his elbows across the bed and making short work of the buttons on his shirt. Only moments before, they'd seemed to be individual chess games to him, yet now they were undone and she was sliding her hands over his shoulders. "I think I'd like everything."

Overwhelmed by possibilities and not wanting Brena to give him anything else to ponder, Nick slid his arms from his shirt and jacket, laid back, and pulled her down into a kiss, his hands finally having the good sense to work at the zipper on the back of her dress. It should have been simple enough, a straight pull down while she held still over him, and even that almost proved to be too much. Bending her arms into an impossible backwards knot, Brena managed to guide him through it, then pulled away. There, she sat up, paused, and fixed a look on him that was entirely too thoughtful and gentle and kind, given the prurient chasms Nick's mind had fallen into as Brena's dress had fallen down from her shoulders.

Once again, she hadn't bothered with a bra, not that Nick could complain, and the fabric – it was blue, as though she'd read his mind – had puddled around her waist and was as close as color could be to the sheen on her hair. The look in her eyes, though – Nick wasn't sure what to make of it, and it concerned him.

"Bren...what're you..." Unsure, Nick trailed off, trying to find some toehold for his mind to stand on, a way to form a sentence or suggest an action, and came up blank.

"Doing?" Sliding off of Nick and letting her dress drop to the floor, Brena gave up on modesty – not that there was any to be had, the bra wasn't the only thing she hadn't bothered with, and then set herself on her hip, next to him on the bed, "Hoping you slide up to the pillows a bit, that's all."

Nick slid up the bed, turned, turned again, decided pants were a hindrance to anything he'd want now or later, and since his shirt was already gone, the rest of his clothing may as well follow. Again, his hands fell over themselves, and Brena gently lifted them away, kissing his fingers as she moved. There was silence in the room, other than the rustle of fabric as Brena pulled at it and the sound of the occasional car passing outside, and in that silence Nick finally broke.

"Bren, I don't know what I'm doing." _'I don't how to have a real conversation with you about condoms since we're already naked. Aren't we supposed to do that before? I don't know how to not fuck you – I don't want to fuck you – I don't even want to just sleep with you – I want you to feel good. Better than good. I don't know how to do that. I don't know what to say to you, or how to look at you. How not to look at you. Touch you. We kinda did that before, but that was when I knew it wasn't gonna end in sex. This is when I know it's supposed to end in sex. This isn't Amy, I know that. Or Nicole. I know that, too. I know I'm fucking terrified of that.'_

"Well, mo trodaire, let's hope I remember enough for the both of us, then."

Brena simply kissed Nick back into quietude, untangling all of the knots in his mind, steadying his hands until they found their way home. What was easy to distantly admire in a generously low-cut dress was somehow more difficult to appreciate when under his palms, but Brena was both patient and persistent – traits that paid dividends when she encouraged his hands to drift lower, move faster, and ultimately turn her back into an arch he didn't think was possible, but was certainly testament to her flexibility. Nick had no idea how he'd done it when he still hadn't managed to settle his nerves, but if his edginess was bothering Brena, she hadn't let on.

Nick hadn't expected Brena to do or know half the things she did – the other half, he had to learn himself. It wasn't that she was wild, or loud, she wasn't drawing her nails down his back, she wasn't biting him or screaming his name – it was that she was the opposite of those things, and he had to force the study of her, because it was all foreign to him. She'd been prepared, after a fashion – all that time in doctor's offices, she quipped, and none of it was for her, for pills – but she'd managed it again, spared Nick an awkward conversation and simply handed him a small foil packet and shrugged, told him to hold onto the condom, took the initiative herself even if the responsibility was his.

And oh, the initiative. If they'd waited for him to move first, they'd have been there all night – such was the way of paralytic fear – but Brena had no such reservations about laying hands on Nick, and she noticed more than once that she could get him to produce a perfect toe-point, depending on what she was doing or how she was moving. Foreplay was a wonderful thing, she reasoned, but so was sex, and while she barely remembered the last time she'd had it, she was more than ready to make up for lost opportunity. Sliding further back atop Nick, Brena stopped where she knew her body was both tease and promise, and waited for his response.

"Jesus...Brena...I mean...Christ. Yeah."

"I'll take that to be a compliment, mo trodaire. And perhaps a request?"

Nick was panting, half-wishing he'd thought to bring a glass of water to bed and wondering if it'd be a good time to open the bottle of whatever Brena had talked him into buying. He couldn't read the label, but her smile was broad enough that he didn't care. It was whiskey, it was imported; good enough for him. He marveled at the complete lack of understanding he had of time – he felt like it had been both minutes and hours since the foreplay had started. Nick could content himself with what they'd done if it went no further, but part of him was howling, let her go on.

"Ready to compliment me again?"

Lost in his reverie, Nick refocused on Brena. Her skin shimmered and she hovered over him, ophidian and beautiful. Scrambling, he groped for and then tore wildly at the foil packet, almost – definitely – desperate, and Brena stilled him.

"Easy now, Nick. For both of us."

Some of it, Nick considered later, was probably self-preservation; if he rushed her, no matter what position she was in or how much they'd done beforehand, she'd be miserable. It was Brena, she'd put up with it for him, but he didn't want that for her. His hands finally found something resembling coherent motion – he was shocked he'd managed to draw the response from her that he had, earlier, because he'd felt like nothing but fumbles and small disasters – but she nearly sang for him, everything in her body taut and lost in the moment. This, though, this was everything he wanted and everything he feared he'd ruin, and when she finally settled back over him, it stopped being a want and became a need, air and water and Brena, or else he wouldn't survive. Nick knew she had to lead the dance, had to be the metronome to the steps they took, and though he was sure the tension had come off of her face and something sly and pleased had crept on, he was unsure why she hadn't moved at all.

"Brena?" It felt like time froze around them. "You okay?"

"Enjoying the moment, mo trodaire. And so should you." Pulling at Nick's shoulders, Brena brought him up to sitting, and from there, it was all a swirl of motion, of legs blurring around him, hips that flexed and rolled, arms that turned him, guided him, and he was sure he never wanted her to leave his lap, but was equally sure that if Brena continued to trace her fingertips down his spine, press her lips along his collarbones, and lift herself along the rest of him, she was going to have reason to find a new seating arrangement much sooner than he wanted.

"Bren, wait. Please?" Nick was struggling for air, for control, for words that wouldn't make him sound like he was on the brink of collapse. His hands found their way to her hips, and while she did slow her pace, she looked at him quizzically.

Reaching up, Brena tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and set her rhythm in a low, sinking swirl. "What am I waiting for?" Her arms rested casually over his shoulders, and she looked like she was half-teasing him. "You seem quite pleased."

"Yeah," Nick panted, "Yeah, I know...I am...I don't wanna...I want you...you to..."

"Tomorrow. Tonight, you." And with that, Brena pulled Nick's face down onto her shoulder, turned him against her neck, refused to let him argue the point, which was all just as well. Minutes later, he wouldn't have had the words for it, wouldn't have been able to tell anyone so much as his name, and could barely find the edge of the sheets to pull over him and Brena when they collapsed next to each other, breathless and wonderfully flush.

"Besides," Brena chuckled, "It's not like I didn't...enjoy it, shall we say. You've wonderful hands, mo trodaire, when you relax enough to use them. And we've got -"

It was then she realized Nick was soundly asleep next to her, and she had absolutely no idea what to do.


End file.
